Going Postal
by yadon
Summary: Simon Blackquill's first case as prosecutor is turned upside-down, his assigned detective being replaced last minute by a too-cheerful, too-talkative fool. But Simon's good luck charm, courtesy of a dear friend, should help him through all the unseen obstacles the day throws at him... right? [Younger!AU pre-relationship!Blackbright; cover image credit @meyhgun on tumblr]
1. Chapter 1

To properly employ the power of suggestion, Cykes-sama had taught him that one must wear both calmness and self-assuredness the way an emperor would their crown.

Currently, Simon Blackquill is bare of either.

"This is preposterous!" Simon attempts, for the second time, to step around what is obstructing his entrance to the post office—and the crime scene: an exhaustingly uncooperative officer.

"I'll let the chief of police know what you think of standard procedure." The officer shakes his head, disapproving. "Just like every other noob prosecutor we get around here. Thinks he's the exception to the rule."

He doesn't want to have to do this—what weight does he have to throw around?—but if he can't stand up to a supercilious foot officer, how would he square off against remorseless criminals or underhanded defense attorneys in the court of law?

"Officer... " Simon squints at the patch across the officer's left breast. "...Officer Stone. I do not think it would bode well for your reputation—or your annual review—if Detective Vatai were to come out and see that the prosecutor on her case was being prohibited from entering. If you were to grant me access now, I can safely say that no one will know of this... situation between us. I can not keep that promise if you were to deny me again."

"Save the bluffing for the courtroom, kid. Detective Vatai ain't here."

"Wh...?" Simon blinks, perplexed. "No, I am certain she is the lead on this case; I was told as much but a few hours ago."

"Maybe you were." Officer Stone shrugs. "But she's not here __now__ , and that's what matters. Until the lead detective shows up on this case to give the okay, you're stayin' put. And I doubt it's her, because she'd have this place combed over twice before any of us got here."

What is even more incomprehensible than this officer's behavior is that fact that his assigned partner, Senior Detective Priya Vatai has yet to arrive on the scene. A distinguished veteran of nearly three decades, Detective Vatai specialized in violent crimes—and in getting results. Simon had met her but once during his initial tour of the police station, and was honored beyond words when informed last night that she would be leading the investigation on his very first case as a prosecutor.

He understands how some might take it as a slight—that, as a novice, he needs steady, even overbearing guidance to achieve a successful outcome. But his perception of Detective Vatai, from that one meeting, leads him to believe she will be amiable and respectful towards him.

If only she would show up.

He wills himself not to think of what should happen if she doesn't, not when such a disaster would mean all the good luck Athena wished him—and even, put into physical form by giving him a favorite hair tie to sport around his wrist, a charm of sorts—would be for naught.

Simon tries one final stratagem. "Do you need __proof__ of my identity, my occupation? Will that do? Here..." He undoes the first stay on his topcoat, enough to show off the tiny badge tacked to his vest's pocket. "My prosecutor's badge."

He never receives an answer, only another disruption adding to his ever-growing litany of annoyances.

"Hey Wally, sorry I'm late!"

Charging up the steps and stopping at Simon's side is perhaps one of the strangest human beings he's ever seen, out of breath and grinning from ear to ear. In fact, Simon could count PONCO and CLONCO and all their beta versions as less of an oddity than the man who causes Officer Stone to switch his stern countenance into a welcoming smile.

"Oh, hey, Bobby!" He jovially swats the newcomer on the shoulder. "You joining the investigation today?"

"Darn right I am! In fact, I'm heading it." A ball-chain necklace swings low from around Bobby's neck, holding a shiny badge encased in a sturdy leather frame. Bobby lifts the badge with unbridled enthusiasm. "My first case as lead detective!"

" _ _Detective__?!" Simon spits out incredulously, and this Bobby character turns towards him with a smile bright enough to be seen from space.

"Yes, Sir!" The officer—well, detective—lets the badge drop, and extends a hand in obvious hopes of having it shaken. "Bobby Fulbright's the name! You must be Prosecutor Blackquill, the newbie. It's nice to meet you!"

Simon cuts him off. "I was told Detective Vatai would be the lead on this case, not... __someone else__." He makes the displeasure of this newest development known in the once-over he gives Fulbright, from his feathered blond hair to the trendy loafers linchpinning an ensemble that looks spewed right out of the 1970's. Simon's not one to care about fashion, but he __does__ care about professionalism, and it's evident Detective Fulbright does not, his cardigan sweater better suited for an octogenarian in a nursing home than for a detective.

Nor does he seem to care—if he notices at all—about Simon's appraisal of him, eschewing the introductory handshake and retrieving a folded paper from the back pocket of his stonewashed jeans. "I'm a last-minute replacement. It's all right here, Sir!"

Simon snatches it from Fulbright, recognizing the form immediately from his studies and shadowing. The paperwork officially detailing all those involved in a case. The only thing that matters, that he absorbs, is the names **B. Fulbright** and **S. Blackquill** under the boxes of Lead Detective and Prosecutor.

"Does this follow standard procedure, Officer Stone?" He asks his adversary calmly, without a hint of the animosity that was present before Detective Fulbright arrived.

With a nod, Officer Stone steps aside and even pushes the heavy door open for Simon and Detective Fulbright.

"Thanks Wally!" Fulbright waves back to his colleague. "In justice we trust!"

What the __bloody hell__ is he on about? Or, more importantly...

"Where is Detective Vatai, if not the lead on this case?" Simon asks as they walk hurriedly through the post office's main lobby, which stretches a full city block, towards the elevators.

"Oh, nothing to worry about, Sir!" The motion of Fulbright's gait reveals that between his hideous shoes and outdated jeans are no socks whatsoever. Simon can't fathom why, and yet, it all seems to make perfect sense for what little he has learned about Bobby Fulbright. "Her daughter went into labor this morning, and she's at the hospital with her! She's going to welcome her first grandchild into the world. Isn't that wonderful?"

"It's in—" __Inconvenient__ , Simon finishes mentally as he trips out an edited answer. "Incredible."

Which is not a lie. Because this day has so far, in fact, broken through any normal parameters of credibility.

And Simon has a feeling, as he and Fulbright step into the elevator and descend to the underground loading dock, that it will only continue in the same vein.


	2. Chapter 2

"...and so you see, Mr. Blackquill, I wish I could tell you more, but I really can't think of what would have motivated Mr. Herr to do such a thing, let alone to Mr. Ecsprest. I've known both of them since I started here two years ago, and neither of them have caused even a spot of trouble."

"And that is what will be revealed in court, I assure you of that." Simon nods to the human resources director. "I thank you for your time and for being so forthcoming, Ms. Prior-Stewart."

"Please contact me as soon as you find out more, or if you have any questions." Ms. Prior-Stewart recites her personal number to Simon, who jots it down. "And feel free to call me Ursula. I have a feeling this won't be the last time we speak."

Simon rises from his seat in Ms. Prior-Stewart's office, and tucks his inkpen away so he can shake her hand goodbye. "Thank you again, Ursula. I or the police will be in touch."

What he doesn't divulge is that she may, in fact, end up being a key witness. Though she didn't see the moment of the crime, Ms. Prior-Stewart was, as far as Simon has been able to pinpoint, the last person who spoke to either the defendant or the victim before Mr. Fred Errol Ecsprest's bloodied corpse was found locked within the rear compartment of Mr. Herr's delivery truck.

Striding confidently from her office, Simon's footsteps echo through the empty lobby as he returns to the elevators. He hopes the police have made some progress, then subsequently can't believe he has to __hope__ as opposed to being certain of it. Of course, he __can__ not be certain about it as he had been swiftly exiled from the scene not ten minutes after arriving with Detective Fulbright.

Fulbright had accompanied Simon around the immediate crime scene, showing him the outline of where the body had lain. But as soon as Simon had started asking questions more thorough than what the case brief had apprised him of, Fulbright had become somewhat __irritable__ with him, trying to explain how they needed time to have everything analyzed properly, so why didn't Simon make better use of his time and speak to what few staff members were present? Learn about the victim, and the defendant, and just the general atmosphere of the post office or any strange events that may have preceded this heinous crime.

He can't say he disagrees with Fulbright's instruction, but how is Simon supposed to refine his own process if he is constantly being bossed about? He could have easily made that decision on his own, and did not need some great blighter of a detective to do so for him.

Said blighter is easy to pick out, his long blond hair a beacon in the dock's dingy gray atmosphere. Another officer is beside him, communicating something important enough that Fulbright is scribbling it down in a notebook with—Simon can't distinguish it entirely from this distance, but he __thinks__ it features a puppy dog of some type on its cover.

For pity's sake.

"Detective Fulbright...?" Simon calls, and it comes out hardly authoritative or even very loudly. Fulbright gives no sign of having heard him, and Simon partially hopes __no one__ did, for how pathetic he sounded.

Suddenly, he is frozen with... not fear, but this murkiness low in his stomach. His folio notebook is clutched to his chest possessively and his other hand rises to meet it, lingering at his wrist and idly fingering the yellow elastic Athena has a matching orange one of.

Dammit, no; he is a __prosecutor__ now, not simply a student of law. There is no room for this pitiful insecurity; he has __earned__ his place here, no matter how insignificant he's been made to feel throughout the majority of his life.

He watches as Fulbright and the officer end their conversation and Fulbright's beaming smile finds him. Simon tries to smile back, to acknowledge him, but annoyance both at himself and the situation only manage to twist his lips into a crooked grimace.

"Oh, hello Sir! Back so soon, I see!" Fulbright's gaze drops a hair, onto Simon's habitual plucking of the elastic. Having not realized he was still doing so, Simon stops abruptly and clears his throat.

"Yes, I have vital information to share with you. I was able to speak with the human resources director, a Ms. Ursula Prior-Stewart, and have determined that it is highly likely she was the last person, other than the defendant, to see Mr. Ecsprest alive."

"Of course you did. You're the prosecutor!" There's this placating way Fulbright says it, that Simon expects him to whip out a sheet of gold stars, press one happily to Simon's lapel much like Athena and Juniper enjoy decorating Aura's tools in their many stickers.

"Yes, well, then have __you__ anything to report back to me?"

"I do, Sir! I have some notes here about the victim!" He removes a folded stack of papers from behind the notebook cover. Which, Simon can now confirm, __does__ display the photo of a German shepherd puppy.

The notes are stapled together, four pages, exactly the same as the ones currently stored in Simon's folio. "I've seen these already."

"Okay. Then, maybe it wouldn't hurt to go over them again?" Fulbright all but shoves them in Simon's face, which is enough for Simon to rip them away and immediately begin scanning them. "Sir, I meant somewhere that's not he—"

Simon glares at Fulbright over the top of the papers. "Have you found the murder weapon yet?"

"Huh?"

"The murder weapon, Fulbright." Simon shakes the notes at Fulbright in what's meant to be a threatening manner. "The cause of death was loss of blood, due to a severed femoral artery, and there's no mention of any particulars of the blade used."

"Well, we haven't found the actual weapon yet, but—"

" _ _What__?"

"The post office's investigative squad are gonna transfer their preliminary findings to us. They're just waiting for a few more test results, but we'll have that information soon, don't you worry! Right now we're trying to determine just how the victim suffered such a deep wound to his thigh; it's not easy to stab someone so directly that low on their body."

"Clearly, between Mr. Ecsprest's many bruises and Mr. Herr's broken hand, a struggle took place between them. Perhaps they wrestled about on the ground. It would not be out of the realm of possibility that while Mr. Herr's strike was intentional, the severity and exact target were not necessarily so."

Confusion creases Fulbright's brows fractionally. He pauses before answering, voice lowering slightly when he does. "There's no signs of a struggle here, Sir."

"There are __truly__ no signs, or your crew is too sluggish and incompetent to __determine__ it? What the bloody hell have you been doing in the past hour, that you haven't anything new or insightful to report!"

"Sir, no offense, but you haven't given us much of a chance. And standing around here arguing with me... you're kind of just..." Detective Fulbright motions about dock, teeming with busy officers. "...You're in the way."

"I __have__ to investigate at some point. Unless you are trying to prevent me from observing a slipshod job of your own investigation; is that why you refuse to let me search the area? I can think of no other reason."

"Sir!... can you just..." Fulbright sighs heavily and combs his fingers through his hair. It's useless, as his loose style flops back into place. "I know what I'm doing, what I need to look for, and there's not much for you to see until we gather more evidence and information, and the analyses come back! And, y'know, you don't have a lot of room to be so demanding. Honestly, you could stand to be more polite, with it being your first case."

How dare this detective reprimand him! He actively attempts to clip back the anger bubbling inside him, but it bites into some of his words.

" _ _I__ could be more polite? I've been nothing but courteous to you! __You__ insist on speaking to me as if I'm a child, what, with your"—Simon affects a drippingly fake positivity to his voice—"'I'm the lead detective! Nice to meet you!' rubbish. To be quite frank, it's disrespectful."

Fulbright stares at him, as if giving him a chance to revise his statement. Then he speaks evenly, without the overly chipper tone Simon's heard this whole time.

"You wouldn't even shake my hand."

Is __that__ what this is about? Simon can hardly remember the detective extending his hand, but after a couple moments' reflection, it comes back to him. He hadn't meant to be dismissive, with how stricken with shock he'd been, attempting to reconsider how this investigation was going to unfold.

Was this Bobby Fulbright __that__ sensitive? And __that__ much of navel-gazer, to not even step outside his own self and consider how anyone other than himself might handle such a monumental shift to the onset of their career?

"I was not trying to offend you. And if it were the other way around—that I were an emergency replacement that took __you__ by surprise—I would not have wasted precious time being so affronted if you'd failed to, in my perception, greet me properly."

There. An apology. Now it's Fulbright's turn, and they can both, as Aura likes to tell Simon quite frequently "build a bridge and get over it."

But Fulbright shows no registration of Simon's words, nor does he say anything at all. And then, for some inexplicable reason, his expression stretches with the same wide smile Simon was originally greeted with. Quite literally what he'd just explicitly advised Fulbright he found disingenuous to the point of being patronizing.

Simon can't stand being subjected to it. His voice is hushed, but heated. "Wipe that grin off your face."

"No can do, Sir! Justice is always best served with a smile!"

"And what basis do you have for that?"

"Haha! Because as your partner, that's what I've decided." He says this resolutely, and so cheerfully that it grates on Simon's ears like fingernails down a chalkboard. It is __insulting__ , this overdrawn __agreeableness__ from a grown adult—a supposedly trained detective—investigating a homicide.

Detective Fulbright is intimidated by Simon's presence. Can not withstand being monitored so scrupulously and given direction that contradicts the manner in which he chooses to conduct the investigation. It's obvious to Simon, in just this short span of time, that Fulbright's demeanor is overcompensating for a lack of ability or even the thinnest strand of intelligence.

He can see no other logical explanation.

"You are not __my__ partner; you are a __replacement__ , and you would do well to remember that."

Simon doesn't even wait to see if his words have their intended effect, of erasing Fulbright's aggravating grin. He storms out of the dock for the second time in as many hours.

If Fulbright wants to be in charge? Then Fulbright can be in charge.

Simon is a fair man; Fulbright has to be given a chance, just as he likely feels he's offering one to Simon in return. But when Fulbright falls on his own sword (a sword of justice, Simon presumes, from how often he's already heard the word uttered), Simon will not exalt him as a hero or even a faithful ally.

Only a fool. A starry-eyed, sloppily-dressed fool.

A __Fool__ Bright.


	3. Chapter 3

He needs to understand this establishment more fully. What's more, he needs to determine if anything on the premises __could__ be used as a murder weapon.

Further exploration of the ground floor accomplishes neither of these goals, yet Simon continues his way through the hallways of the building's rear portion, aiming to check every last nook and cranny. The employee lounge, a supply room... there has to be clues somewhere, but there is not, at least not that he can discern.

He should have asked Ms. Prior-Stewart if the victim or defendant had reason to interact anywhere other than in the loading dock, where the bulk of their work took place. As it is, he recalls the employee profiles on her desk when they spoke earlier; even, reading from them.

But what are the chances there is information she omitted?

Now, he hasn't the permission to rifle through her files, but if she left them on her desk? Open, available... if he were to just __happen__ by them, while stopping in because he was certain he'd forgotten his pen...

Simon approaches her closed office door and jiggles the handle, only to find it locked. Huh, how peculiar. Even at the prosecutors' office, most of his fellow associates did not lock their doors, as there was nothing to hide.

"Mr. Blackquill. What else might I help you with?"

He whirls around, met with Ms. Prior-Stewart's imperious gaze.

He doesn't lie, exactly, but he doesn't admit the whole truth. And for why, he isn't quite sure. "I was only familiarizing myself with the layout of this floor."

"I'm not sure how that involves attempting to break into my office."

She had been nothing but pleasant with him thus far, but that accommodating nature has disappeared. Now, she shows the severity of a strict librarian, ready to shush Simon for speaking too loudly or needlessly—or even speaking at all.

The untruths continue in a mollified stammer. "M-My apologies. I had grown so misdirected in these hallways I did not even realize this was your office."

She nods, accepting his apology far more graciously than that bumbling dottard of a detective. "How goes the investigation?"

"Nearing its end, at least for today. We've made great progress." Again, Simon has nothing to bolster this statement with. But anything he can do to gain her cooperativeness and confidence will go a long way into obtaining a guilty verdict, considering he means to question her further. "Likely, we will be taking our leave shortly."

"Excellent. The sooner, the better. Then all the letters and packages being held up can be transferred to our Mid-City facility—and we can ensure the public receives all their mail in a timely matter. Only a day's delay, is what we're looking at."

"Pardon?"

"You know the U.S. Postal Service's motto, don't you, Mr. Blackquill? 'Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night will stay the couriers from swiftly completing their appointed rounds.'"

"Ah, yes, I have heard that at some point. Although I wasn't sure if that creed also encompassed murder"

Ms. Prior-Stewart laughs politely. "I also think of it as a disservice to Mr. Ecsprest, if we were to be held up any longer than absolutely needed. He was so proud of his occupation, you understand? Freddy—it would have disheartened him for us to interrupt our service, all over __him__."

It is quite a flippant way of describing a homicide, but Simon takes it as truth—and he can appreciate Mr. Ecsprest's dedication to his job.

Ms. Prior-Stewart presses on. "Now, what is it you were looking for up here?"

Simon blinks, the coolness in Ms. Prior-Stewart's tone leaving him feeling no answer he provides will be acceptable. Nevertheless, he must give one. "Nothing in particular."

"You were trying to break into—excuse me, you were trying to __enter__ my office. You must be __searching__ for something, other than... what did you say? Simply familiarizing yourself with this floor's layout."

"The restrooms," he blurts without thought. It was the answer he'd prepared should anyone have found him slinking about the darkened office hallways, but with Ms. Prior-Stewart eyeing him so suspiciously, it sounds anything __but__ rehearsed.

Which, ultimately, he supposes, bodes well for his trustworthiness.

"Oh, of course. Down the hall and to the right. Men's room is the last on the left." She motions beyond them, to the intersection several strides away. "And please, keep me in the loop about when the investigation is wrapped up, so we can get those packages transferred. But if there's nothing else I can help you with, Mr. Blackquill, I really need to be going. My daughter is home sick from school today and really, the last place I want to be is __here__ , when she needs me. And I know how important it is for Freddy's killer to be brought to justice, but it's... it's been only a few hours, and even that's unbearable..."

Simon softens a touch at her wavering tone, picturing a little brown-haired girl with a fluttery cough and frail constitution: Athena's closest friend from school, Juniper Woods. "What is her name?" he asks out of genuine curiosity.

"Susannah. With an 'h'."

"Mm. Well, then, Ms. Prior-Stewart... Ursula, " He corrects himself with a flimsy smile. "I hope Susannah is feeling better by the morrow. Please, take your leave."

They exchange goodbyes and Simon sets off in the direction of the restrooms; he might as well visit them, while he's nearby. But he lingers right around the corner for a few moments, keeping an ear out and catching the distinct __clicks__ of a door being unlocked, then locked again.

And it strikes him as rather interesting that, for as much as he's trying to learn about the case from Ms. Prior-Stewart, it's what she's not telling him that has taught him the most.

* * *

Instead of bypassing Ms. Prior-Stewart's office again, Simon opts to go left where he'd originally gone right when directed towards the restrooms.

He's all but certain he hasn't checked this hallway yet, because he passes a drinking fountain and knows he's yet to see one during his search.

At the hallway's terminus, he finds the only room not closed off. By the large mobile hampers lining the wall opposite him, Simon gathers this must be a sorting room. All of the hampers, save the one closest to the shelves of supplies across from the entrance, are empty.

Above the hampers, square metal doors are spaced out intermittently along the wall; they must connect to chutes leading down to the dock. In the remaining corner rests a desk, occupied by a computer and a scattered assortment of pens and other office stationary; in Simon's estimation, the ideal location to search first.

Judging by its dull hum and the column of lights along its tower, the computer is still on. Figuring he has nothing to lose, Simon sets his folio on the desk and hunches over the keyboard. He's not sure what he's looking for, but an errant swipe of the mouse brings the computer back to life with a startling piece of information

The bright blue welcome screen displays the username of FREDECS.

Now, __that__ is something. Mr. Ecsprest was in this room if not the night of his murder, then conceivably sometime earlier in the day. He retrieves his phone and snaps a quick photo of the screen with its camera, eager to show it to Fulbright, when something else on the desk catches his attention.

Simon recognizes it easily from seeing similar tools at GYAXA. A box cutter—or more, a utility knife. And a rather __nice__ one, a sturdy red plastic grip curved for ergonomic comfort.

He picks it up, ready to flick the blade up, but can not do so; it's designed for a left-hander. And so he switches it to his left hand and immediately sets it back down when the realization hits him.

The murder weapon.

Wouldn't a post office contain a large inventory of utility knives? It's the only object that makes sense for either man to carry on his person, or at least keep within reach.

Stabbings, in general, were often perpetrated within the heat of the moment, especially when at the hands of a male suspect. So that's the angle Simon's been chasing; that Mr. Herr used an object __available__ to him as a weapon, opposed to purposely __bringing__ a weapon along to work that night.

Well, first of all, he needs to verify that the box cutters supplied by the post office are fixed with blades matching victim's wound. Otherwise it's meaningless supposition.

And Mr. Herr's broken hand is his right one, therefore he's most certainly right-handed. So this left-handed box cutter... it may not have any variations from the right-handed version, but Simon needs to be sure.

He hurriedly searches the desk's drawers. Nothing. The supply shelf on the other end of the room also yields unfavorable results. He finds packaging tape, staples, labels, sharpies and pens... but no box cutters. But there must be some here; where else did the red-handled one on the desk come from...?

Simon turns his gaze upward. The shelves above him are stocked even more plentifully, packed three, four boxes deep. Not seeing a ladder (or stepladder) anywhere, he chances climbing up onto the first shelf. Carefully, he wedges his foot between a pyramid of bubble-wrap rolls and piled bags of styrofoam peanuts. With one hand firmly clamped under the lip of the shelf now at eye-level, he uses the other to peruse the first row of supplies—which turns out to be a century's worth of receipt paper.

Still unable to make out what's shoved all behind the receipt paper boxes, he climbs up another level. But his right foot clips a pack of pens instead of finding purchase. Luckily enough, he doesn't fall, but his slip sends the box of pens toppling off.

And __un__ luckily enough, the pack is open, spilling the pens everywhere.

"Damn..." Simon swears, hopping down and lowering to his knees to collect the pens, to erase any sign that he'd conducted his own investigation. If it weren't for his run-in with Ms. Prior-Stewart earlier, he'd wait until after he found the box cutters to bother cleaning them up. As it is, the last thing he needs is to get caught skulking around, even though he's positive he's the sole person still roaming this floor. He needs to just get out of here, and report what he's seen, and what he now hypothesizes, to that Fulbright imbecile.

Eleven of the pens are quickly swept up, slid back into the box indicating it holds a dozen. The twelfth, however, has gone missing, and the first place Simon checks is under the nearby mobile hamper, where he's sure it must have rolled.

His hand pats around, arm stretching further and further beneath the hamper until he has to lower himself flat onto his belly. He finds and snares the renegade pen, but winces at the tacky warmth squishing against his fingers when he does.

And when Simon retracts his arm, his eyes widen and his heart springs into throat, turning a cry of shock into a choked, animalistic squawk.

His hand is covered in thick, congealing...

Deep, rusty red...

Oh __no__.

Simon stares at his fist, at the... the __blood__ smeared across it. At the pen, also stained, clutched with a vice-like grip and beginning to tremble.

Investigating crime scenes is one thing. Happening upon them unexpectedly is something else entirely.

He returns to his stomach, dirtied hand tucked under him, attempting to peer beneath the hamper. The lighting is too dim for him to see it clearly, but he __can__ make out an obvious discoloration puddled directly under the hamper's center. The metallic scent of it reaches, and sickens, him.

He doesn't have Fulbright's number in his phone, not with him being a last-minute substitution. But he needs that dimwit and his crew up here, posthaste. He dreads the image of him frantically rushing out from the elevator, sounding like some hysterical blatherskite as he tries to convince his team of detectives—Fulbright, especially—of what he's discovered.

Unless... His gaze falls on one of the metal doors that open to the connecting chutes.

Of course.

Simon nearly grabs for the closest one to him, but stops himself at the last moment; this is a crime scene. This is __the__ crime scene.

Already his fingerprints are on the shelf, the desk, the computer. The last thing he needs is to further add to what is already a forensic detective's nightmare. Especially with prints caked in blood.

Simon covers his left hand with his jacket cuff and throws open the door of the third chute. The sharp stench of blood, of __death__ , causes him to gag.

Oh, __hell.__ It's in here too.

He turns away momentarily to suck in a fresh breath, then calls to the dock below.

 _ _"Fulbright!"__

Through the chute he hears the harried buzzing of surprised officers; Simon can only imagine how his voice must have carried throughout the dock, hollow and disembodied and likely frightening at least one of them enough to shave years off their life.

"Sir?" Fulbright's voice ricochets up the chute, sounding from all sides, as if there's a dozen Fulbrights. Simon internally shudders at the thought. "Sir, is everything okay?"

"Hasten up here! The mail—" Simon pauses, coughs. "The mail sorting room!"

"What's wrong, Sir? What is it?!"

"There's blood." Simon raises his sleeve to under his nostrils, the scent of his own person muting that of the blood as he inhales another filtered breath. "Everywhere."

"Right away, Sir!"

Simon throws the door shut with a heavy clang and backs away. He drops into the chair by the computer desk, right hand suspended in front of him, still grasping the pen and still soiled in blood. He notices, now, how the blood narrowly avoided staining Athena's charm.

He vividly recalls her last night, stopping him as he left GYAXA. Looking up at him with big blue eyes, she'd slid the ribbon onto his wrist with the wish of, "Good luck, Simon! I just know you'll catch the bad guy!"

He hadn't bothered to explain that the "bad guy" had already been caught, and it wasn't Simon who had, or even __could__ , "catch" them.

No, he'd made the stupid promise of vowing that he'd tell her all about it tonight, when he returned to GYAXA for a meal Aura and Dr. Cykes were to prepare as a celebration of sorts.

Now all there is to tell is how he's stuck with a maroon of a detective who holds no respect for him, and although stumbling across what looks to be the true crime scene certainly quantifies as luck, he is reluctant to say it's the __good__ kind Athena wished for him.

The nerves unraveling in his chest escape in a sudden, piteous sob. The pen falls from his grip onto the concrete floor, a loud clack echoing through the empty room.


	4. Chapter 4

Simon returns from washing his hand off—three rinses with warm water and soap and he still feels the blood embedded under his fingernails—to find Fulbright and his crew all but turning the sorting room upside-down.

To their credit—mostly, to Fulbright's credit—they'd set to work straight away, cordoning off both the blood-slicked chute and the hamper which, upon closer inspection, is not only covering a pool of blood but whose interior is splattered with it.

He watches from a distance, stationed in the doorway, feeling perfectly awkward as he mentally replays the stuttering description he'd given to Fulbright and the others about his discovery.

Fulbright, in the midst of helping remove parcels one-by-one from the bloodied hamper, grants him the occasional acknowledgement by way of fleeting glances and soft smiles.

It forces him to recall the many evenings at GYAXA, coaxing Athena to speak with him—to anyone, really—about whatever was on her mind through the same simple gestures Fulbright has been exercising. And to see the gradual results... now she is eager to show him projects from school, or even greet him with a hug instead of hiding in her room.

He'd done so not because he'd seen it as field study, a further reinforcement of what Cykes-sama taught him, or out of the pity he sometimes overheard Aura say she felt towards the girl, but because he genuinely, undeniably believed Athena to be in dire need of it; this compassion.

Because he knew what it was like to grow up without.

 _ _No!__ What is he thinking? This is altogether different; Athena is a child, and he is a prosecutor, a well-educated and (he'd like to think, anyway) worldly upholder of the law.

Fulbright doesn't know him—he's just being kind, as one as yonderly as him would be wont to do; it's entirely shallow, annoying, even, in its transparency. He should be insulted, not put at ease, that someone—moreover, a detective—could be as ignorant to believe they could gain Simon's respect through such naivete, and not through the results demanded of them both.

There is absolutely no way Bobby Fulbright could comprehend the uphill battle Simon's fought with his own inner demons, to be where he is today.

In fact, Simon's not even sure how much he's educated himself about the case, save for what the brief has told him.

When Fulbright once again glimpses his way, Simon beckons him over with a curt tilt of the head.

"What is it, Sir?"

As before, Fulbright's gaze falls to Simon's right wrist and the elastic, which he is half-rubbing, half-tweaking with his other hand. Only, this time he hadn't been mindful he was doing so. It must have been automatic, this silly activity to rid himself of restless energy as he tries to extract some confidence out of anxiety tangled so tightly within.

And just as before, Simon drops his hands, feeling ungainly and foolish as he shoves them into the pockets of his topcoat.

"Yes, er... can you... that is, if isn't detrimental to the investigation right now... can you run through the timeline of events with me?" And then, trying to prove that he is not as uncouth as Fulbright likely thinks him... "Please."

Fulbright is all too happy to oblige. "Of course, Sir! So, early yesterday afternoon, another driver found what looked to be a puddle of oil dripping beneath Mr. Herr's delivery truck. Upon closer inspection, it was blood, and it was then that Mr. Herr's truck was busted into, and Mr. Ecsprest's body was discovered. The post office's own investigative squad was able to determine that Mr. Ecsprest had been dead for anywhere from ten to fourteen hours at that point. Which means the murder took place late Sunday night."

"And the reason for Mr. Herr to be taken into custody? It could not simply be because it was his truck that the body was found in, I hope. That strikes me as too convenient."

"That's exactly it! It is convenient, as a way to dispose of the body. The easiest, most efficient way for Mr. Herr to dispose of the body would have been with his delivery truck, not his personal vehicle. His route takes him along a gated riverfront community that isn't anywhere near his own residence. And since the mileage on these trucks is tracked, he wouldn't have had to deviate from his route at all. We think he meant to do so during his next shift, which would have been yesterday afternoon, but by then his plan had been thwarted."

He isn't meaning to be so critical, but Simon can't help picking out and dissecting that which he does not feel is complete or unquestionably true. "Speaking of shifts, what business would the two men even have here on a Sunday night? The post doesn't circulate on Sundays."

"That doesn't mean there isn't any work to be done! There were several people working that night, and Mr. Herr and the victim were the last two remaining, according to those other employees."

Right, he remembers Ms. Prior-Stewart stating that she'd spoken with both of them at some point in that evening, before she'd left. He curses himself for, again, not having her expand on how a Sunday shift might differ from a weekday one, for either of these men. He doubts very much that Fulbright, or a more seasoned prosecutor, would have allowed such an important piece of information elude them.

He sighs, far less settled than he'd hoped to be.

"Here's my issue, Fulbright: a murder occurs, as you know, because of motive, means and opportunity. We have only been able to establish opportunity, and from the looks of it—from the fact that it seems the crime likely took place in the sorting room, which is accessible to anyone, opposed to the dock, where only the drivers would be—that rules out Mr. Herr as being the only one with opportunity. You understand, the defense can, and I'm sure, __will__ , argue that someone was attempting to frame him by placing the body in his truck."

"Haha, oh, they won't take that stance! Mr. Herr hasn't once claimed he's innocent!"

"...What?!" This is news to Simon, and he is properly incensed. "Why did no one inform me the defendant confessed?

"Oh, no, Sir I didn't say that, either! Apparently, Mr. Herr stated that he 'knew he'd end up being arrested', and didn't protest when he was taken into custody and arraigned late last night. Other than that, he won't talk. I haven't gotten to speak with him yet, myself, but I'm confident, with everything we've gathered today, that I'll have enough ammunition to get something out of him before the trial tomorrow!"

How can Fulbright be so carefree? So terribly unconcerned about them going to trial with absolutely nothing to support the arrest and allegations, other than what can __maybe__ be construed as a confession? This is a nightmare, it's almost as if...

"So... am I to understand that you are of the opinion Mr. Herr could be, dare I say, innocent?"

"No, not quite. I can't say without questioning him myself, of course, but..." Fulbright hesitates for the briefest second, and then prattles on as if years of experience have led him to this conclusion. "I think Mr. Herr is involved in this crime somehow; there's really no way he couldn't be. I wouldn't be surprised if there was some kind of cover-up going on. But that's just my theory of course!"

"I don't care about your—!" Simon finally boils over, though has enough presence of mind to stop himself mid-outburst. Snapping at Fulbright that he doesn't care about __theories__ will do little good. He's frustrated, and quite frankly, still shaken. He knows that several officers have paused, turning their attention to the two of them, which makes it all the more damaging to his self-esteem.

"Sir, you...?" Fulbright's hand is on the back of Simon's arm as he directs him out to the hallway. They are out of earshot of the other officers, but even so, Fulbright lowers his voice and speaks to Simon as though they are at the bench together, conspiring over a witness's testimony or the defense's claims. "Sir, if you'd like to return to the office, it'd be okay with me."

"No..." Simon shakes his head, thankful the dimly lit hallway aids in hiding the shame in his expression. "No, I... I'm quite alright. I'm only..." He can't finish, can not bring himself to confide in this buffoon.

"Nervous? Hey, I'd be pretty freaked out too, if I—" Fulbright reaches a flattened hand out to demonstrate. "—splatted my hand down in a bunch of blood."

Simon keeps silent, knowing it speaks louder and more meaningfully than the words he's been struggling to find.

"It probably doesn't help at all, but I'm nervous about this case too." Fulbright doesn't sound as much, but he does sound sincere. About both his nervousness and the fact that he does not believe it will be of any great assistance to Simon, to know this.

"Yes, well..." Simon starts, as he draws from a memory of when he was first getting to know Dr. Cykes, almost a full year ago. Picking her brain for all that he could while in the final stages of writing his thesis, before taking his bar exam. How it'd all began as a purely academic relationship between them, a student and his mentor. Something blooming so richly once the two of them began speaking as openly as what is commonplace now.

There's no possible way a fledgling prosecutor and detective will remain partnered together. And so, it will not be like this with Fulbright—will be with some other detective, if it's with anyone at all.

But for the moment, it __is__ very much like this with Fulbright.

"Sir?"

"You handle these nerves of yours considerably well," Simon admits.

"Haha, because I know nothing can get in the way of justice! And I know __you__ know it too! You wouldn't be a prosecutor if you didn't." Fulbright's wide grin seems wider with how the shadows throw across his face. Which only serves to make him appear even more idiotic—and yet...

He is correct. It is his job—and Simon's—to ensure not just that the law is rightfully followed, and that those who would break it face their deserved consequences, but to see to it that the many victims of these wrongdoings are properly defended, completely unable to do so themselves.

And it is not a job that can be entrusted to anyone, as years of studying, and of witnessing the many who have not the discipline or aptitude or, most frequently, the support have proven.

"Hmph." A rueful smile lifts the edge of Simon's mouth. "You are not wrong."

"Oh, thanks, Sir! See, what I said about you being more pol—"

"In fact, I know many things."

"Hey, that's not what I meant!"

"Fulbright?" A third voice cuts in from a short distance away.

They both turn, and it's Simon's old acquaintance Officer Stone standing a couple steps in front of the sorting room's threshold.

"Fulbright, I think you need to see something here," Officer Stone reports, his voice quiet but urgent. "We have... er, not a problem, but... I really think you ought to see it."

Following Officer Stone's suggestion, Fulbright heads back to the sorting room but not before issuing Simon another one of those softer, understanding smiles. Taking this as something of an invitation, Simon decides to tail after him, only to have Stone blockade him from the entrance, an arm thrown out and propped against the frame.

"You should wait out here, Blackquill. Might be a bit too gory for you to handle." Stone gives Simon a smug smile; not all is forgiven from their earlier interaction. Simon wants to be angry with Officer Stone, but only curses his own inability to make a decent first impression.

"He's good!" Fulbright easily pushes Stone's arm down, creating enough room for Simon to slip on through. But he doesn't, too frozen with surprise and it takes Fulbright grabbing him by the sleeve and pulling him into the sorting room to break him from his trance.

"Wh...?" It startles him, the clumsy somersault his stomach does at both their contact and the gesture in and of itself. Fulbright is a __fool__ and Simon need not waste thoughts and emotions, and certainly not any ensuing reactions they ignite, on him.

Fulbright passes him a pair of latex gloves. "Put these on, Sir."

Simon stretches them tightly over his hands. "So I take it I'm not 'in the way' any longer?"

It's meant to be nothing more than a sarcastic comment, but Fulbright takes it in earnest. "As long as you're not treating me like __I__ am, then no, you aren't."

One would think even Bobby Fulbright would run dry of smiles, but yet another one crosses his face.

And as he committed to doing just seconds ago, Simon does not __think__ or __feel__ anything about it.

But he does smile back.


	5. Chapter 5

"What am I looking at?"

"Notice anything out of the ordinary... er, besides your handprint, that is?" The bloodied hamper has been emptied and rolled aside, revealing the gooey puddle Simon slapped his hand into.

Simon crouches down to examine it more closely, unsure what could be so irregular.

And so, he admits, "I don't, no." His eyes stay fixed on the blood, at the streaked imprint of his hand. He is struck with the impulse to, morbid as it is, etch stick legs and a beak to complete a turkey, if only to see how Fulbright would react to it.

"You'd expect there __more__ blood, wouldn't you? But there isn't." Fulbright walks over to the chute door Simon had called down into, pointing to where the Luminol fluid reacted. "Only in these places, with a trail between."

"You don't consider this 'a lot' of blood?" Simon asks, still in a crouch.

Fulbright backtracks to the hamper. "There's a lot in __here__. What you're looking at—that's all from dripping. It's not consistent with the type of spatter that would be present if say, the victim bled directly from his wound onto the floor. There's no... __movement__."

"I'm not following."

"What I'm saying, Sir, is this can only be explained is if the victim was __in—__ " Fulbright grabs hold of the hamper and shakes it gently. "—here for an extended period of time."

Simon rises to a standing position, annoyed at how for every answer they find, three new questions replace it. "That doesn't make sense; if the suspect disposed of the corpse down this chute, to then conceal it in the back of his truck, why __wait__?"

"You know, Sir, I actually might have an answer to that, but I'd like to test something first. I'll need your help on it too, so you'll have to follow me. Gimme a second first, okay? We found a bloody uniform underneath all the packages in there, so let me make sure the tests on it are expedited; I know you need the results by tomorrow or we're in deep trouble!"

As Fulbright checks in with his officers, Simon takes the opportunity to more closely study the hamper, which is now a key piece of evidence. A sizable bloodstain overtakes one, and only one, of the canvas walls. It must have soaked through while tipped on its side. What is also visible now, in the middle of the crimson stain, is a slit about waist-high on Simon.

He runs a gloved finger along it, noting how the smallest traces of blood have reached the outside of the canvas, undoubtedly from when the knife was removed. It is too much of a coincidence for this slit to have been here previous to the murder, and he hopes dearly that this has been notated.

Simon glances up, about to ask this very question when he sees Fulbright at the computer desk, collecting both his and Simon's notebooks. It's then Simon remembers...

"Hoy, detective! Before we take off anywhere, you need to see this." He'd been meaning to show Fulbright the picture on his phone, but that was before he ever expected the crew to __be__ here. As it is, he gives the mouse a swish and within seconds, Mr. Ecsprest's locked log-in screen appears for all to see.

"Here. I bumped the mouse during my search earlier, and this is what I found."

"Oh...! Good catch, Sir. Interesting, too..."

"Indeed. Will it take long to er, 'hack' into this? Ah, you could lift prints from the keyboard to determine the password, right?"

"We could, but considering how often this PC was used, I don't know if matching prints is really efficient. But don't worry, we have personnel here skilled in this sort of thing. Justice is always prepared!"

Simon hardly has the chance to process this statement before Fulbright darts off to the other side of the room, and returns with a female officer in tow. She has a youthful appearance, and both confidence and intelligence radiate from behind her neon green-framed glasses. Her jet-black hair is cut in a jagged style falling right above her shoulder.

She is attractive, although it's less that __he__ actively thinks it so much as Aura's voice in his head pointing it out. This has always been the case, that he's more aware of what his sister would think about women than what he himself does...

It's embarrassing, that he's thinking about it at all. Or that for some reason, he's now looking at Fulbright, as his mind continues to stray along this pointless thread.

"Sir, this is Officer Dakota Ng. She does software programming in her free time, and she's kind of a whiz when it comes to this kind of stuff. "

"I'll make a great criminal someday, if this cop thing doesn't work out." She reinforces this with a cutting smile, and beside her, Fulbright lets out a scandalized gasp.

Simon chuckles at such a bold, and clearly sarcastic, proclamation. "Ah, well, we all have our aspirations."

Saying this aloud makes him wonder, useless as it is, what Fulbright's are. Bah, probably nothing remotely of interest to Simon, that much is certain. He swiftly rids the thought from his mind.

"It's a good thing she's on our side!" Fulbright pats her shoulder approvingly. "Thirty minutes enough time for you, Dakota?"

"Please. Fifteen minutes or less, that's the Dakota Ng guarantee!" She stretches out her arms, interlaced at the fingers and dramatically cracking her knuckles.

Fulbright dismisses Officer Ng to her task with a cheerful salute. After they both dispose of their latex gloves, Simon heeds Fulbright's request and follows him out of the sorting room.

Simon doesn't ask where they're headed, as other curious observations take precedent.

"They seem to like working with you... er, __for__ you, I suppose." He thinks of, from what he can tell, the distinctly different personalities of Officers Stone and Ng and how they both seem friendly and open towards Fulbright. Quickly, so that it doesn't sound as if he means it incredulously, he adds, "That is, you have a knack for... __people__."

"Yeah? Thanks! As you can see, it's a tough job, so why make it any more difficult by being all..." Fulbright glances in his direction.

"Impolite?" Simon provides, half-jokingly referencing Fulbright's chiding of him.

Taking it obversely, Fulbright pauses at the junction where the back hallways meet the front lobby. "Sir, there's no need to... I mean, I don't think you're..."

Fulbright hesitates a moment, lost in thought. He rests a thumb by his own cheek and two fingers atop the bridge of his nose, as if pushing up invisible glasses; clearly, a reflexive action. They're standing so close that he can't help but study Fulbright, and that's the __only__ reason Simon notices two pinkish indents, shape consistent of nosepads. Gods, does Fulbright require spectacles and has forgotten them? Or even, opted not to forego them, for a purely aesthetic purpose?

Hmph, as if Simon cares about this Fool Bright's appearance; he's already proven himself, in many ways, inexplicably odd. Simply, Simon doesn't want to be working with a detective with questionable eyesight, and before he has the opportunity to change the subject and inquire about these missing glasses, Fulbright presses on.

"I don't think you're __overall__ like that, just..."

Simon braces himself, prepared for what's to follow. How, if he could only be more personable. Or, if he were more willing to just __get over__ the sickening unease that arises when thrust into social interaction...

(Or, many other phrases that he ensures Athena __never__ hears, that she __never__ has to even entertain, at least not from him...)

"...you're not a people person, I guess," Fulbright finishes.

Simon can't quite grasp the tenor of this statement—he knows it to be true, himself, but coming from someone else so openly and without scorn? That is, nothing more than an objective fact—he's bewildered, and only distracted when he suddenly notices a light pressure at the top of his thigh.

He then realizes it's the unique texture of Athena's hair tie pressing into the tender skin of his wrist as he rubs it ever-so-slightly back and forth along his dress slacks. He stops this motion, says the words he suspects fit the situation most suitably, though he knows they're futile. "Er, but I... I suppose I should make strides to change that... To be, er... more affable."

"No, don't do that!" Fulbright puts his hands up as if he's literally stopping Simon from acting upon his resolution. "Why, just think about when we're in the courtroom tomorrow! I know you'll have no trouble ripping apart any witness testimony—even my testimony, if need be!"

"Were you not just lecturing me a short time ago how I could stand to be more polite?"

"Yeah, I... I was, but... maybe __I__ could stand to be more accommodating." Fulbright scratches at the back of his head, shoulders sagging as he releases a heavy sigh. "I was thinking about something my training officer told me, back when I started; how I shouldn't forget what it's like to be a rookie. And I guess I kind of did. I mean, there's a lot to remember, and heck, your first case is a homicide, as if it's not stressful enough! So, what I'm saying is that... I'm sorry for being so... so __powertrippy__ , with you. Especially since you've... well, __I__ think you're proving you're up to snuff."

What is Fulbright babbling about? __He__ thinks he was harsh with Simon? Even more so, it's been bothering him?

It must be, as Fulbright is staring at him with large doleful eyes, no doubt concerned about how Simon will, or will not, take his long-winded attempt at a truce.

"Your apology is unnecessary, but I thank you, all the same. Honesty is a trait I respect greatly."

"Oh, I do too, Sir! And you're doing a fantastic job of keeping me, and this investigation, honest with how er... __blunt__ you are! So keep it up, alright?"

"Hm, you're saying I should spare no quarter in distributing the tongue-lashings due you, for even the most minimal transgression?"

"Haha, nope! Fire away!" Fulbright starts walking again, leading Simon to the impossibly long customer service queue and its adjacent counters. "But you __do__ still owe me a handshake. That hasn't changed."

Simon's reply borders between humor and seriousness. "Earn yourself one, Fulbright, and you shall receive it."

"That's the plan!" Fulbright flashes a grin, issuing a sharp salute before opening the door at the far end of the service counter and letting Simon go first into the employee side.

The area they enter is, to put it mildly, disorganized. One can not walk from one end to the other in a straight line, thanks to all the miscellaneous items strewn about. Simon doesn't derive anything negative from this set-up; if anything, it reminds him greatly of Aura's room, and now her lab, when in the midst of another project. Clutter was a sign of genius, of success, she'd tell their father when he'd raise an eyebrow at her chaotic work space.

And as busy as this branch is—by far the highest-trafficked one in all of Los Angeles—Simon can't find fault in this claim. Nor can he find how he, in any fashion, will be of the slightest help.

"Do you __really__ need my assistance in this?" His tone makes it plain that he's not sure he—or anyone—can ably fulfill such a request; where would they even start, in this disarray?

"I need __someone's__ help, yeah. But I'd __like__ yours."

Simon's shell of apprehension cracks and splinters, and emerging from it like a newborn chick from an egg, is a certain calm.

Just hours ago he never would have thought that the __luck__ Athena wished for him could have, in any sense, involved what's transpired today. That is, meeting and being encouraged to __help,__ Detective Bobby Fulbright.

And perhaps it's still to come, because the way Fulbright's face illuminates when Simon nods and asks how he can be of assistance suggests __he's__ the one who's having all the luck.


	6. Chapter 6

It turns out that assisting Detective Fulbright encompasses all of standing off to the side as Fulbright maneuvers a mobile hamper, identical to the bloody one, through the maze of clutter and parks it flush against a far wall.

Eventually, returns to beside Simon, observing his work. "How does that look, Sir? Would you say its about as far apart from us as the computer desk and the wuk were in the sorting room?"

"The __what__?"

"Haha! I just learned that today, that's what those giant wheeled hampers are called; wuks. What a silly name. But learning the lingo always helps."

Simon is unable to roll his eyes hard enough to fully express how much he does not care. "Yes, it does. But tell me, Fulbright; does the postal service have a term in their glossary for 'overzealous berk'?"

"Maybe! I'll ask Mr. Herr when I question him tonight." Fulbright completely deflects Simon's barb and points to the clock on the wall near them. "Alright, so when I say 'go', start counting the seconds, and don't stop until I say so. Got it?"

"What in the hell are you—"

"Ready? Go!"

Simon's gaze moves to the clock, where the second hand has just passed the twelve. He can't watch it the way Fulbright has directed him to, though. Not when his attention is entirely captured by Fulbright sprinting off toward the hamper—the __wuk__ , that is— and making a valiant attempt to haul himself into it.

Fulbright succeeds only in tipping the wuk over. Simon draws the notebooks up to in front of his mouth, shielding the spurt of laughter that escapes him as Fulbright falls gracelessly to the floor with a "Nyarrgh!", sprawled on his stomach as the wuk flips over on top of him.

Luckily for Fulbright, the wuks are not heavy at all when they're empty. He may come away with a bruise from toppling over, but that's the extent of the damage as he groans and glances in Simon's direction—or would be glancing, if his mop of hair weren't serving as a blond curtain in front of his eyes, causing him to very much resemble a sheepdog.

"Sir... Stop. Stop counting."

Simon doesn't bother to tell him he's already done so, too busy laughing instead. He crosses over to Fulbright, who wriggles out from under the wuk and swipes the hair away from his eyes. Before Simon knows it, he's offering a hand to pull Fulbright to his feet, and Fulbright accepts it.

"Perhaps if your hair weren't so..." Simon's hand goes to his own hair, indicating how long and flowy—and absurd—Fulbright's is. "You could more ably see what you're doing."

"Oh... yeah, true. Could I borrow your hair tie, then, Sir? I'll make sure to give it back; I know it's important to you."

"It's not for—!" Simon starts, but knows it's pointless to try and pretend as if Fulbright hasn't caught him fiddling with it all day. He huffs and tugs the elastic from his wrist. "Here."

Fulbright takes it, deftly securing his hair back in a limp ponytail and, from a head-on perspective, giving the illusion of a well-coiffed style as shorter layers still frame his brow. "How's that?"

"Yes, you look much better." Immediately, Simon's struck with the urge to bite his tongue off for betraying him. "That is...! I mean...! You don't look like a... a... "

"Like some degenerate hippie?"

"Yes, well, something like that." At least he's aware of how ridiculous his appearance is; that says something, right? "Although, it'd help greatly if you'd trim those sideburns..."

"That's what my grandfather says. Haha, you sound just like him!"

Simon glares; he hasn't any clue if Fulbright is insulting him or complimenting him. Likely neither, and only jabbering like a jay, enjoying his own chirps.

"You are __dressed__ like your grandfather, with that sweater!"

"Oh, right, it's kind of bulky, and I __am__ getting pretty hot, moving around like this. Here."

Fulbright slips out of his gray cardigan, revealing the short-sleeve brick red button-down beneath. It's quite __hip__ , some might say, printed with a tiny repeating pattern of triangles.

But the way it clings to his broad form—not too tightly but __enough__ , and the sleeves ending slightly below his biceps...

Heat floods through Simon's chest, spreads to his neck, his face. He knows he's __staring__ , as wide-eyed as when he'd seen his hand coated with blood.

Fulbright's cardigan ends up folded over Simon's forearm. He's thankful his hands are currently occupied by their notebooks, else he'd fear leaving the cardigan drenched in sweat for how overwarm he suddenly feels.

"Er, right, would you..." Simon nods to the wuk. "Try again."

Fulbright lifts the wuk back into an upright position. "Yes, Sir! Don't time me, though. I think I got it."

This time, Fulbright doesn't rush; he doesn't tarry about, no, but he's more deliberate in his execution. He uses a spare chair, much like the one at the computer desk, as a step, entering the wuk by unceremoniously dropping into it from above, like one trying to hurdle a fence that is too tall for them.

Simon places their belongings on the chair, and moves back to the entrance, to the lightswitch on the wall. Loud enough that Fulbright can hear him, he says, "Ah, well that was an exhilarating investigation; I think I shall be off, to interrogate Mr. Herr and prepare further for the trial."

He switches off the lights to punctuate his sentence.

"Sir, get over here!"

Simon chuckles and turns the lights back on, then hurries over to his contained detective. He stares down at Fulbright, who is not offended, exactly, but none too amused that he was about to be left behind. "I jest, Fulbright. Now, what information have you unearthed from your cozy new abode?"

Fulbright is laying back, fingers laced on his chest and knees bent, as if enjoying a relaxing day at the beach. "Well, let me ask __you__ , Prosecutor Blackquill: what do you think is the most __confusing__ aspect of this case?"

"Besides working with you?" Simon snarks out. He has no time to regret it, as, to his surprise (though decidedly __less__ surprise than had he commented with this only a few short hours ago), Fulbright responds with a well-taken laugh. Clearing his throat, Simon continues. "Ah, well, there is the matter of the victim being stabbed in the thigh to begin with. I can only conclude that the accused meant to maim, not kill, although did not have any qualms if he __did.__ "

"Right, it's not the—" Fulbright lifts his hands away from his chest to fingerquote "—'normal' way to go about killing someone. I agree, completely. But that's what we're looking at; that the victim was stabbed while laying __in__ the wuk, here."

"Also, er..." Simon trails off, the thought having just come to him and not making a terrible amount of sense. Yet, he's intrigued by his own instinct to assume this in the first place.

"Go on, Sir."

"I just... on the topic of the sheer __amount__ of blood that was found, both in the sorting room and around Mr. Herr's truck: shouldn't it be one or the other? That is, if the victim was murdered up here, and then moved... I'm not sure I understand how so much blood ended up at the dock. So, is it possible the victim was not dead at the time he was moved from one level to the other? Hence, spilling blood at both locations?"

"That's... you know what, Sir? That's... actually a really good point!"

"How do you mean, 'actually'?!" Simon glares down at Fulbright. "You are aware, you are in the same helpless position you claim the victim was in?"

"Haha! I just mean, it's good that you're sharing your ideas with me! I promise, it's a compliment."

Try as he might to rebuke this statement—that he does not require __compliments__ , most certainly not from an enormous prat such as Fulbright, it stirs something pleasant within him. "And now, provide me with the chain of events leading to Mr. Ecsprest being stabbed. Your __theory__ , as it were."

"Okay, well, Mr. Ecsprest was in the sorting room, which is relatively secluded, __to__ use the computer. He heard someone—the killer, it turns out, approaching, and he couldn't escape anywhere. I mean, the only other way out of there would be going down the package chute, and that's just silly, and dangerous, as we've seen by the number of bruises on the corpse. So, he hid."

"Or tried to."

"Right. Because if he __did__ hide, he would probably have to climb in the same way I did. With the chair he was in. It wouldn't take long; he could just slide over, climb onto the chair and sort of just..."

"Spill right in." Simon finishes. "Yes, and of course leaving the chair nearby would be a dead giveaway. His attempt to conceal himself would be futile. He carried some kind of fear of his killer, it would seem."

"Yeah. Which reminds me, we should check the chair for footprints when we get back. But anyway, when the killer found Mr. Ecsprest in the wuk, they probably talked for a bit about... well, whatever. We'll see what Dakota finds in his employee drive. I'm sure that has something to do with it, don't you?"

"It's a strong likelihood, yes."

"Okay, so I'm thinking Mr. Ecsprest struggled to get out of the wuk." Fulbright thrashes about. It nearly tips over again, but Simon snatches its sturdy frame with both hands. "But his killer held it fast."

"Like this?" Simon grip tightens, a devious grin surfacing. "Perhaps even gave him another shake, for good measure?"

"Sir! Stop it...! Th-This...Hey! Stop, please!" Fulbright splutters as Simon jostles the wuk side-to-side. "This is a serious investigation!"

When Simon doesn't relent, Fulbright draws his legs up and braces them on the wuk's internal wall, shoulder-width apart, effectively stabilizing it.

That's when it all comes into sharp clarity. He'd meant it only in jest, but it's what happened, after all.

"Hold still, Fulbright."

"Sir, what...?"

Simon reaches to his vest pocket, removes the pen from within and brings it down by his slacks pocket, turning it cap-side down in the process. His fingers close around it solidly, as if clutching the hilt of a dagger. "Is __this__ your theory?"

Before Fulbright can answer, Simon swings the pen up and against the wuk with unchecked ferocity. The cap, being so dull, does not puncture the wuk's wall, only presses the canvas inward and with enough force that Fulbright swears mildly as it prods his thigh.

The residual indent left behind is at approximately the same location as the slit in the bloodied wuk.

"Mr. Ecsprest was stabbed in the thigh because he could __not__ be stabbed anywhere else," Simon concludes, slipping the pen back into his vest pocket.

"I...I would agree, Sir." Fulbright is still frazzled, and Simon decides this suits him quite well. In fact, he's only encouraged to see it continue.

"And now, imagine if the knife were still lodged in his thigh for a few moments. He would be in a state of shock, and, in essence, dead weight. It would not be all that difficult for a grown man to... " Simon shifts to the side of the wuk, and with a mighty push, upends it and sends a yelping Fulbright spilling halfway out.

Simon peers over to stare down at Fulbright, who's disgruntled and scowling at him in return. "When I asked you to __help__ , Sir, I didn't mean for you to do..." He gestures wildly, an homage to all Simon has just put him through. "All __that__!"

"Sorry," Simon smirks, not sounding as though he means it in the least. "But I wanted to reenact it as true to the actual crime as possible, you understand? The victim, certainly, hadn't any warning of what was to come."

"No..." Fulbright begrudgingly agrees, and sighs. A lock of hair has escaped its ribbon enclosure, and Simon's breath stills momentarily as he watches Fulbright tuck it back behind his ear and survey his surroundings from a new perspective. "Hey, but... look, Prosecutor Blackquill. If the victim had been tipped over like this, the blade would have gone deeper into his thigh. It wouldn't have come __out__."

"Correct. But somehow, Fulbright, the knife was removed. And once so, blood would have come gushing out. Also, it couldn't have been a simple process for one man to drag him to the chute. Thus, so much of it soaking into the wuk. And into its side, not the bottom as one would expect."

Simon still can't account for Mr. Herr's broken hand—he would have had to incur the injury at some point after the murder, for how else would he have wielded the knife? Although, it could easily be a product of his emotions reaching a boiling point. Simon can vividly recall when Aura broke her pinky toe by kicking a table leg out of frustration that her senior year Tech Ed project was not up to her far-too-lofty standards, and would not consider it implausible that Mr. Herr reacted similarly when the gravity of what he'd just ( _ _allegedly__ ) done hit him.

Fulbright has since scrambled out of the wuk and to his feet, and for the final time adjusts their prop to an upright position. "That all makes a lot of sense—well, more than anything else. But, you keep saying __knife__ , Sir, when—"

"Fine. __Blade__. You know what I mean." Although, who is he kidding; he would be doing the very same to Fulbright, if Fulbright were, in his opinion, misspeaking. Simon lets out a gusty sigh, gathering his notebook from the chair, as Fulbright does the same with his own possessions. "I can't believe this murder weapon—this __box cutter,__ of all things—has become so bloody difficult to track down! What, did it just grow wings and fly away?"

Fulbright doesn't answer right away, doesn't even move as Simon starts for the doorway. Then, just as Simon glances over his shoulder to command his detective to quit dithering about, Fulbright exclaims to him, "Sir, I... that might be __exactly__ it!"

"...I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, it's simple, really! Remember where we are, Sir." Fulbright is in his cardigan again, a brisk pace as he catches up to Simon, and they hasten through the lobby.

"Yes? The post office. What of it?"

"How does anything get into or leave the post office?".

"Packages." Of course; Simon feels every bit a remedial dullard for not having even considered it. "So you think the weapon left the facility via a parcel?"

"Not yet, no. But, if I were a murderer—whether I intended to be one or not, and were at a __post office__ , of all places, I sure as heck would think to get rid of it by mailing it. Or, I guess, pretending to."

A whirlwind of questions and their possible answers flurry through Simon's head, and he does his best to snatch the pieces he's gathered out of that storm, piece them together neatly.

If Mr. Herr meant to dispose of the corpse while on his delivery route, why not box the weapon up and hide it amongst all his other parcels? Even, marking it with the required labels so it'd blend in. No one would be any the wiser, seeing one box among thousands. Then, he could simply remove it and toss it into the river along with the body.

And then, Simon remembers Ms. Prior-Stewart's request to have all the outgoing mail transferred out by end of business. If that were to happen, their progress in this case would be severely impeded. They __have__ to find the weapon; no amount of __it has to be__ , __it can only be__ , __it only makes sense if__ can replace being in possession of indisputable, properly examined evidence.

"Fulbright," Simon tugs on Fulbright's sleeve to halt him, and turns to regard him sternly. "We must have every package opened and searched, starting with what was in Mr. Herr's truck."

"That could take all night! And we have no __proof__ it's sealed away, or if it even __is__ a box cutter. So, no, Sir, not without a warrant or, at the very least, probable suspicion. At least let me talk with the accused, first!"

"You've no guarantee __that__ will yield anything. By then it could be too late! I __told__ you, I want—"

"Prosecutor Blackquill!" Fulbright raises his voice over Simon's, not angry or threatening. Only assertive, as Simon has attempted to be all day. "We __can't__ just rip into the public's mail! That's a __federal__ offense!"

"You're damn right it is," a new voice cuts in, deep and ominous.

Emerging from the same hallway Simon and Fulbright are headed towards are two men. Both are a far cry from Detective Fulbright. Their matching navy suits are worth more than Simon's full wardrobe at home, and not a hair on their heads is out of place—nor tailing a girl's ribbon from it.

"You Blackquill?" The leaner of the two sports a smirk that is asymmetrical to his cocked brow. His associate, conversely, bears no expression at all; his mouth, eyes, nose are all the very definition of __flat__.

"I am." Simon nods, not caring for their casual omission of his title. However, with Fulbright here to vouch for him, he feels emboldened where he might not otherwise. " _ _Prosecutor__ Simon Blackquill."

"I'm Detective Bobby Fulbright!" Fulbright snatches up his hanging badge to show it off, and Simon can't help from fixating on what he knows now is a well-toned arm. Is the definition from flexing his arm so often, lifting his damned badge to show every individual he passes?

" _ _I'm__ Agent Pat Cage." The man tells this to Simon only, ignoring Fulbright completely. He flips open a leather, wallet-like case to reveal a badge that Simon is unfamiliar with. "This is my partner, Barton Parcells. United States Postal Investigation Unit, Violent Crimes."

Simon takes note that, unlike Fulbright, neither man extend him a handshake—that they are not, in any sense, __pleased__ to meet him.

The feeling is already mutual.

Fulbright, unsurprisingly, seems ignorant of this animosity trickling in. "What can we help you gentlemen with?"

Cage laughs dryly, still avoiding any acknowledgement of Fulbright's existence. "Glad we could finally catch up with you, Blackquill. We've been trying to track you down all day. Didn't know you'd come here to investigate on your own."

"He's not on his own!" Fulbright replies immediately. "He has me!"

Cage exchanges a significant look with Parcells, who just shrugs. It's as if they've some joke between them, and Simon has the notion Fulbright is a large part of it.

"Come with us, Blackquill," Parcells says, a nod to suggest he's ready to take this conversation elsewhere. "We got the blood test results back from that tape we found in Herr's truck. You oughta see it. Pretty decisive."

"What are you on about? What do you mean, __'tape__ '?!" Simon demands. Who are these agents, just traipsing their way into the investigation, as if their involvement in the case has not long since concluded?

"You'll see," Cage tells him. He snags out a folio that's been tucked under Parcells's trunk of an arm this whole time, and hands it to Simon. "Oh, and there's this. An updated autopsy report. Hot off the press."

Simon takes it, scanning it over, but unable to __read__ at the moment, the way he's swarming with nerves thanks to the agents. They're now standing on either side of him, a flagrant indication that this piece of evidence is meant for their, and Simon's, eyes only.

Over the top of the report he can't focus on, he finds Fulbright staring back at him. Their shared worry, the confusion on Fulbright's face that Simon knows mirrors his own...

This is what Simon had hoped for: that he and Fulbright finally, blessedly, approach this investigation with the same blade at the ready. And now, it is so.

Both of them haven't any idea what's going on.


	7. Chapter 7

"How did you get this?!" Fulbright snatches the report away from Simon, examining it less for its content and more to verify that it is in fact, what the agents claim.

"What Detective Fulbright means is that he is—we __both__ are—impressed with the speed in which you obtained your results." Right now, it seems, the agents are of the mind that Fulbright is here as Simon's assistant, common for most prosecutors when visiting a crime scene. He nods towards Fulbright, knowing he must keep his detective focused on the task at hand. "Detective, if you would?"

Fulbright only obeys after Simon gives him a more meaningful look, a silent plea for cooperation.

"Y-Yes, of course, Sir!" Fulbright clears his throat. "'The victim suffered a stab wound four inches deep, wherein the femoral artery was cleanly severed along with nearby muscles and tendons. Death occurred within fifteen minutes due to hypovolemic shock caused by massive and rapid blood loss.'"

Simon frowns, disappointed. Although the information is more precise than before, it's not __new__. "We know this already."

" _ _You__ sure don't. That's what seals the deal _ _,__ right there." Cage taps to the fragment about 'four inches deep'. "The U.S. Postal Service issues basic models of box cutters, that only extend to two and a half inches—still enough to sever the femoral artery on most people. But employees can use their own utility knives if they so choose. And Mr. Herr owned a sturdier, segmented model that could extend up to five inches. "

"You were right, Prosecutor Blackquill!"

Perhaps his theories are not as far-fetched as he second-guesses them to be, at times. It sends a certain thrill coursing through him, to think of presenting this updated report at precisely the right moment to inflict the lethal blow to the defense's case. He exhales a small sigh of relief.

"Well, this is... excellent. I thank you, agents, for your sterling work in uncovering such crucial evidence in a most timely manner. However, I want to make it known that Detective Fulbright and I also uncovered some interesting findings over the course of our __own__ investigation. If you wouldn't mind, we'd like to share them and from there we can determine what matches, and discuss any discrepancies that might arise."

"There's no __discrepancies__ , Blackquill," Parcells says, his tone as formidable as his build. "We have irrefutable evidence __and__ a confession."

Fulbright asks, with no uncertain impatience, "What's this about a tape? If it's so decisive, then we want to watch it... we're obligated to!"

"Not a video tape." Parcells shakes his head. " _ _Tape__ , like packing tape. Found a used roll of it not a few feet from where the murder took place. Herr's bloody prints were all over it. The victim's blood."

Simon nods. "And that is decisive... how, exactly?"

"This kind of tape is only available down at the dock—the scene of the crime. Showed it to Herr after we got the test results back." Cage smirks at them, and Simon __wishes__ he could jostle these two about in the wuk the way he did Fulbright. "He caved. Confessed. He used the tape to seal away the knife, and we just found it now, before we ran into you. It was exactly where he told us it'd be: among some of the cargo in the back of his truck. The knife's handle even has a strip of masking tape with his name written on it. He was going to get rid of it along with the body, on his delivery route."

"Just like we thought, Sir!" Fulbright exclaims, but Simon is more concerned with what __isn't__ corroborating.

"Ah, but there is your discrepancy already, Agent." Simon taps at his own temple, as if to point out he was using his mind whereas the agents weren't. "You said about the tape being found at the dock—the murder scene. From our investigation today, we've determined that while the body __ended up__ in the loading dock, it is most likely the victim was killed in the sorting room."

Simon quickly describes the surplus of evidence gathered from the sorting room—the blood, the imprints on the chair. He leaves out mention of the computer, as without confirmation of __what__ Officer Ng has found, if anything, he can not safely assume it's worth sharing. The agents listen without interruption, though Simon can't say he cares for their dismissive expressions.

Neither does Fulbright. "If you don't believe us, we'll gladly show you!"

"If you've got any __proof__ of all this, Blackquill, we'd be more than happy to see it," Cage addresses Simon, and Simon alone. "Lead the way."

This is a test, he knows. They are not interested in what he and Fulbright have to share, only wishing to make it known the amount of power they wield, and to ascertain how compliant Simon will be to it.

They will discover that by challenging Simon, they serve only to challenge themselves.

* * *

The agents flank Simon and Fulbright by several steps as the four of them walk to the sorting room. They mutter to each other—about what, Simon can't make out, but no matter. Realizing this may be his only opportunity to touch base with Fulbright, Simon lowers his voice, praying that Fulbright can, for once, do the same.

"What is going on, Fulbright? Why are these agents here, and in possession of the evidence that __you__ should have by now?"

"I don't know, Sir. This case was transferred to us hours ago! All the test results should have been sent to our division back at the precinct, and I should have been notified of anything urgent. Boy, they sure are __rude__ , aren't they?"

"Nevermind that. Obviously there was some sort of communications snafu. Just allow me to do the majority of the talking with them, do you understand?"

"But, Sir! Federal agents aren't exactly easy to deal with—"

"Nor are you, Detective, and I feel I've done a respectable job thus far." Simon doesn't dare chancing a look back at the agents as they cross into the sorting room. He provides Fulbright with one final order. "Please. Trust me."

Fulbright manages a loose salute and a muted smile. "Yes, Sir."

* * *

"Huh," is all Cage can say as he rounds the wuk for a third time. Parcells says nothing at all, too busy keeping Officers Ng and Stone from interfering by shooting them hard, pointed glares when they inch too close.

Upon the foursome's arrival, Fulbright's team had been asked to clear out—by Fulbright himself, yes, but it was obvious this was not an order he was giving willingly. The officers had dispersed, with grumbling that only quelled after Fulbright promised to update them all in an hour, tops. Ng and Stone, though, had been adamant about watching from the entrance, and Simon can only conclude Ng is eager to share whatever she's discovered—something quite crucial, if she's this fiercely staring down a federal agent twice her size. Stone, on the other hand, looks to be holding a large, tightly-rolled parchment that must require Simon's and Fulbright's immediate attention.

"Hm... " Cage murmurs again, and the long thread of patience inside Simon, already pulled so taut, finally snaps. These agents are making a mockery of his discovery, of __him__ , by conducting this examination in such a painstaking manner, and it takes all his willpower for Simon to keep his voice even, diplomatic.

"As you can see, it's difficult to discount this room as not having played some role in the crime. The amount of blood is reason enough."

Cage doesn't look at him, only continuing to run a gloved hand leisurely around the wuk's canvas exterior as he walks around it once again. "You said you found a bloodied uniform beneath all the packages, right?"

"The team here did, yes."

"Well, this whole mess is what was left behind. Look, every driver has a week's worth of uniforms here. Ya know, they bring in a new batch every Friday, and the worn ones go out for cleaning and—"

"I'm familiar with the concept," Simon cuts him off.

"Right. So there's a side room connected to the dock, sort of a break room, where all these uniforms are hung in separate lockers. Go and see how many Kerry Herr has left hanging for this week. Zero." Cage curls his fingers into the shape of the number, plainly unsure if Simon grasps what he's been told.

Parcells gives further explanation. "Herr dashed out to grab his spare uniforms; some to wipe up the blood, others to lay under the corpse in his truck, try and keep blood from getting all over it. Piled the dirtied ones into one of the wuks in the dock—he couldn't stash them all away in a package like he did the knife, and again, he wouldn't risk them staining his truck. And with a broken hand, it'd make it even tougher to carry. So he brought the rest of 'em to the ground level via the freight elevator, in the wuk."

This does sound a very plausible possibility, now that it's been presented to Simon. If he hadn't been in the sorting room until now—which these agents have not—and were to fully rely on what was found at the crime scene along with the accused's confession, it __would__ all match up.

"And I'm to take it that Mr. Herr has detailed this to you?"

"It's what he told me," Parcells confirms.

"Only you, Agent Parcells?"

" _ _Us__ ," Cage corrects. But there is a shift in his eyes, an uncertainty that passes across his face, and Simon doesn't miss it.

"But a uniform wouldn't leave behind that much blood!" Damned Fulbright! He'd been so obedient up until now, somehow refraining from blurting out everything that flittered through his Fool Bright mind. But the truth is, he's only voicing the same thoughts looping through Simon's head. "And you saw the slit in the side of the wuk here. How else can the wound be explained? There's no way you'd __try__ to kill someone by stabbing them in the thigh. It only could have occurred had the victim been trapped!"

Cage does not seem to have heard him, still utterly fascinated with the wuk and its bloodstain.

"Despite being instructed __otherwise__ —" Simon serves Fulbright a look as sharp as the __kodachi__ he practices with, before using it on Cage, "—Detective Fulbright asked you a question, Agent. I would like for you to answer."

"Sorry, didn't catch it. What was the question, again?"

Simon repeats what Fulbright asked, though in a less leading fashion.

Cage answers confidently, almost as though he expected this exact topic to surface. "First of all, if you can show me any of these ancient things don't have some kind of tear in them, I'll buy you dinner." The smile he flashes makes Simon's skin crawl, could be deemed predatory if this were outside a professional setting. "And if you consider the accused attacked in the midst of the struggle—didn't have a stationary target, that is, the fatal wound is real easy to explain. Plus, Herr sustained a fracture to his right hand consistent with having punched someone—or something—and why would he throw a punch if they hadn't been fighting?"

Simon's original hypothesis, even without Fulbright and his team having found anything indicating this to be so. Though visibly pained by doing so, Fulbright doesn't respond, instead giving Simon the chance to answer by asking his own question about the still undisclosed motive. "And what were they fighting about?"

"Personal dispute," Parcells says. "They've known each other— _ _of__ each other, at least, for a long time. There was some bad blood between them. But it's clear that Herr was the aggressor in this. Because he admitted as much."

Huh, __this__ is news. Especially since it directly contradicts what was told to him earlier—by none other than...

"That is fascinating, considering I spoke to a witness earlier who informed me the two men have no connection outside of their mutual occupation."

"Who—?" Cage begins, but Parcells barrels right over him. "You talked to Ursie...-la? Ursula?"

"Agent Parcells, are you... __acquainted__ with Ms. Prior-Stewart? And how would you know it is she I spoke with?"

"I know __everyone__ here, including the victim and defendant; a few months ago there was a string of armed robberies that hit a bunch of the metro offices. This is where I was stationed, both to investigate and as security."

"I see."

"And Ursula's the one who phoned in the call after one of the drivers discovered the body. We spoke to her first, and she gave us copies of the employee files for Herr and Ecsprest, too."

Another intriguing piece of information. He hadn't been granted access to these files; no, everything had been relayed to Simon verbally.

"I see," he repeats simply.

Too simply for Agent Parcells to not infer a particular meaning behind it. "I wasn't __close__ to anyone here, so I can't tell you—"

"Except for 'Ursie', was it?" He offers a sarcastic smile, and swears he sees Cage trying to hide one too, head bowed as he removes the latex gloves from his hands.

"Knock it off, Blackquill. Don't get any ideas."

"I assure you, Agent, the last thing I wish to obtain from either of you is any sort of __idea__. _ _"__

Where Simon expects Cage to support his partner in the form of an acidic remark, he only turns to Parcells with a certain curiosity. "Man, I didn't realize you were __stationed__ here when you—"

"It's why I was assigned to this case in the first place," Parcells says, nowhere near as amused by this tangent. Which, despite his statement, gives Simon a fairly good __idea__ of where Cage's comment was going. "They needed someone who's familiar with the layout; this place is huge, a maze. Thought you knew that, or at least figured."

Simon notes this, tucks it away safely in his mind. Perhaps the measure of communication between these two is not as open as they would have it appear. He has to wonder how long they've even known each other, prior to the initial investigation.

"If you know the layout and the staff so well, then you should join Prosecutor Blackquill in questioning Ms. Prior-Stewart before she takes the stand!"

Simon knows what's not being said behind Fulbright's suggestion; that there is something not entirely trustworthy about having these agents, and these agents alone, testify. Sure, it sounds innocent enough—any detective might suggest a witness, just to be on the safe side—but Simon has the inclination this is more a bait, that he's hoping the agents take.

They do. Parcells's eyes, still flinty and dark, widen. Like he's been cornered. "Okay, hold up; Ursula's not taking __any__ stand. This case is open-and-shut, we've established all this."

"No, Agent Parcells, only __you've__ established that. As it stands, there are __still__ several discrepancies."

"There's no __fucking__ discrepancies!" Cage snarls, as if he's the one being provoked. "If Bart here says she's not testifying, then she's not, and we're not wasting our time interviewing her!"

Simon doesn't flinch. "She __volunteered__ to speak with me further, if necessary, and I feel strongly that it is."

"Oh?" Parcells looks between Simon and Fulbright with unconcealed loathing; his facade has shattered. "And which of you two jokers is gonna explain to Senator Prior and the rest of the media why you dragged his daughter in for questioning?"

"S-Senator?!" Prior: it's a common enough surname that Simon wouldn't have begun to assume she was related to the politician currently running for reelection.

It apparently means nothing to Fulbright. "If Prosecutor Blackquill wants her interviewed—especially if she's volunteered!—then there's no reason she shouldn't be! The law's not in place to overlook someone just because they're a senator's daughter. Ignoring her role in this case is a disservice to justice and I won't stand for it!"

"Neither will I!" calls a voice behind them.

Officer Ng sprints over from where she was standing in the doorway. She's small enough that, like a wraith, she slips between Simon and Fulbright, standing in front of them as she pushes onto her toes to address both the agents. "God, are you assholes done here or what?"

"It would seem 'or what', at this point," Simon replies, hardly joking.

"Well, wrap it up, already." Ng turns to Simon and Fulbright, excitement written all over her face. "Just wait 'til you see what I found in the victim's e-mail."

"And I finished these diagrams here!"

Simon turns to see Officer Stone approaching, stretching his arm in the general direction of Fulbright. It's snatched up by Agent Parcells's broad hand.

Cage leans towards Parcells to survey the blueprints, and throws a sharp grin at Officer Ng. "Don't worry, girlie, we can be plenty done here if you feel like cluing us in to what you did the honor of digging up for us."

It's a good thing both Simon and Fulbright are present; each of them have to block the officers from lunging at the agents.

"Hey, those are for Bobby, and Prosecutor Blackquill!" Stone declares as Ng starts with, "Who are you calling __girlie__ , you pasty, horse-faced—"

" _ _SILENCE!"__ Simon slices through their squabbling, much louder than intended or even, what he thought himself capable of. Everyone's gazes pan to Simon, fill him with an unnameable satisfaction. He clears his throat, staring down the lot of them. "Is anyone going to bother explaining what in blazes is going on?"

"I'll tell you what's going on, Prosecutor Blackquill! It's that these agents think they can push us around! Push __you__ around!" Fulbright is very foolish, Simon already knows, but he hadn't understood to what extent until now, as he witnesses the detective prattle on despite the way Agent Parcells is sizing him up. "Well, I won't let that happen, not in the name of justice! Nothing they can tell us changes what __we've__ found, what we've seen with our own eyes. I'm ready to take the stand and testify to what the __evidence__ says, not what a couple of stuck-up jerks say!"

There's a thickly quiet moment where Parcells rolls the blueprints back up, and passes it back to Stone without breaking his glowering towards Fulbright. "Huh, I get it now. Why you're acting like such a hotshot about all this." Fulbright barely gets out a "Wh—!?" before Parcells continues. "What exactly do you think your role is in this case, __Detective__ Fulbright?"

"What d'you mean, what I __think__? I'm the lead detective! Me, Bobby Fulbright!"

 _ _Don't do it__!Simon mentally pleads that Fulbright not reach for the badge swinging from his neck. __You tremendous git, don't__ _ _ **do it**__ _ _!__

He does it. "See! In justice we trust!"

Cage sneers, "And __there__ is your discrepancy, Blackquill."

Simon begins to ask for clarification, but the disbelief on his face speaks for itself.

"What, you need it in layman's terms? __We're__ your investigative partners, and have been from the beginning; this case never changed hands."


	8. Chapter 8

"Like hell you are!"

The words are crossing Simon's mind as they fly off Officer Ng's lips. It takes her three male colleagues to prevent her from launching herself at the agents once again.

"Hey, don't get mad at us, little lady. Your 'lead detective' here"—Cage motions to Fulbright—"is the one who didn't want this case bad enough to follow basic procedure."

"Don't listen to them, Prosecutor Blackquill," Officer Stone chimes in. "They're just trying to __trick__ you; they want all the credit."

Simon's mind feels like one of Aura's unfinished projects; wires crossed here, a few bolts loose there. He is only __just__ able to process the continuing argument between the officers and the agents.

Even more puzzling is the dynamic between the agents themselves. Simon is of the impression their professional partnership is in its nascency, but the way they speak, volleying off each other's sentences...

"Hey, we saved you a lot of time and energy... and __expenses—__ "

"—so be grateful."

Something doesn't add up. Or, perhaps, adds up __too__ neatly.

Ng thwacks Simon across the arm, perhaps meant to be a nudge of encouragement. Simon winces, and concludes she must have siblings of her own. "Come on, Prosecutor Blackquill, are you really going to __listen__ to these fucking guys? Wally's right, all they care about is getting the chance to be the big damn heroes. Because I can bet you my next paycheck that their unit hasn't seen a real-ass murder since the Pony Express was around!"

"' _ _These fucking guys'__ are in charge of the investigation," Cage stabs a finger threateningly towards the officers. "So keep jawwing at us, and see where that gets you with internal affairs."

"Wrong. Prosecutor Blackquill's the one in charge of it all!" Stone looks to Simon. "Tell them to take a walk already."

Fulbright is unnervingly quiet throughout this. Simon throws a quick glimpse his way, sees him despondent in a manner that does not seem congruent with his personality. As though he, unlike anyone else in the room, has an inkling as to where all this dissension is rooted in.

"No, Officer Stone, I will not ask them to take a walk. Rather—" Simon nods to the agents. "—I would like for you, agents, to instead walk me through from when you began the case, until... well, until the crux we currently find ourselves amid. "

"No problem." As Simon expects, Parcells is the one to speak about the case. "So, we conducted the initial investigation yesterday afternoon and, after confirming it was a homicide, arrested Herr under probable suspicion. This was in the late evening, maybe eight or nine. He was interrogated for a good hour, but wouldn't say a word."

"Other than that he 'knew' he'd be brought in for questioning, from what I understand."

"Yup, but we didn't have any hard evidence to break him, only circumstantial stuff. So we passed it off, to you guys."

And Simon picks up, from what is a most basic knowledge, "Because the LAPD's homicide division has more sophisticated means with which to obtain definitive results, yes. And a detective accepted the transferral. I then received word rather late in the evening that I would be assigned to prosecute, with the understanding we would investigate together this morning. But this detective had to bow out due to a family emergency, and there was a mad scramble to find a substitute."

"Yeah, and then __I__ was assigned to it!" Fulbright exclaims at the same time Parcells finishes with "And __no one__ ever picked it up after that."

Simon half expects Fulbright to stamp his foot petulantly. " _ _I__ did! My captain even __asked__ me, since I just got promoted and—"

"We never heard about it. Neither did your captain," Parcells says, fluidly bringing the conversation back to the case. "Didn't think Herr'd be so easy to break with just one piece of damning evidence. The tape. But, hey, guess he knew there was no point in keeping silent, at that point. Just like there's no point in transferring this case now."

Bollocks, of all the times for the agents to be so civil and even-tempered, it's now. Simon wishes Fulbright would follow suit. He can't bear to hear more whinging, and attempts to diffuse the situation. "Right, but still, I believe our findings are rather valuable and... we want this to be as incontrovertible as possible, so..."

"' _ _So__ '?" Cage asks sharply.

"So, perhaps there was some... some sort of miscommunication? Er, that is... perhaps the form was delivered to the wrong desk?" But Simon's words are dull, ineffective and handled more maladroitly than his first attempt at wielding Cykes-sama's __ōdachi__.

The glaring similarity then, and now, is the lack of conviction which he displays. Making him easy prey to Parcells giving a simple reply in the form of a scoff.

"Look, Blackquill, you might be new, but don't think you can use that as an excuse for trying to pull a fast one on us. I get it, you wanna suck up to the PD, get some brownie points with them. That's fine. But you can't just let __your__ detective waltz on in unauthorized, without paperwork or notifying us—"

"Hold your tongue, agent. There's no need for such snap judgments of my character." Simon's heart is pounding, but they can not see him crack, no more than they already have. Laying the truth out is a necessity regardless of whatever disadvantage he's in. "I was— _ _we all were—__ under the assumption Detective Fulbright here had properly followed procedure. He is not the sort to practice such chicanery, that much I know."

"That's right, and I'd never break the rules either! And see, I do have it, right here!" Fulbright flips open his notebook, and pulls out the paperwork he'd shown Simon earlier in the day, that proved __Simon__ was the one who legitimately belonged.

Cage snatches it away, studying it for all of two seconds before passing it back to Fulbright. "No, we definitely never heard a damn thing about this. We contacted your captain before coming here, just to make sure there __wasn't__ some kind of mix-up on either end. But he said despite asking around, no one got back to him about taking over the case."

Gods, how could anyone within a five-mile radius __not__ have heard Fulbright carrying on about this case, and his bleeding dedication to it?

"Wh—...? No, what are you talking about?" Fulbright's resolve withers away. Simon imagines it's not only from the fact that he's made a mistake, but that it's come to light in front of so many peers. "But... he __told__ me he wanted me to take the case! And so I came here, right away, because I knew Prosecutor Blackquill and all the officers waiting for Detective Vatai would be here!"

"Bobby..." Officer Stone cautiously approaches him, and takes the form, looking it over. "Didn't you __fax__ this to the captain, though? I know this is your first lead case but even if he asks you, he needs to know that you officially accepted it. What if you'd had some emergency come up like Vatai did, and couldn't take it even after you said you could?"

Fulbright falls silent, his expression neutralizing and his gaze sliding sidelong, away from anyone. All the telltale signs of someone trying to process terrible news.

Simon could laugh at the irony, and he nearly does, bringing his hand up to cover what comes out as forced cough. He'd prayed for Fulbright, in all this enthusiasm, to bungle up somewhere along the way. To have his spirits, so unbearably __high__ and, Simon had thought, unbearably fabricated, squashed because there was no room for such __emotions__ when it came to the grisly, unaffected reality of investigating crime scenes.

And yet, it was this refreshingly upbeat demeanor that had guided Simon through what would have been an otherwise discouraging and terribly overwhelming afternoon.

"B-But... I mean, see, you guys see it __now__ , and—"

"Whatever. Don't get so fucking bent out of shape about it, Fulbright." Cage sounds not quite exasperated, but about as impatient as Simon would expect him to be at this point. Funnily, about how __Simon__ would have expected __himself__ to be after so much time with Fulbright. "You can still __help__ , you just won't get the credit. But that's not what this case is about, is it? What __justice__ is about?"

"Well, no, of course not! But—!"

"Agent, there is no need to further provoke Detective Fulbright." Something, an __awful__ something, spreads through Simon chest, slow and syrupy and dark. Their __tones__ , the deliberate __goading__ in their words; it is too familiar, too __horribly__ familiar. The autopsy report is held to his chest, one hand covering the other. His pinky rubs where Athena's band would be.

"Don't tell me you're trying to __defend__ him?" Parcells sounds truly offended, __betrayed__ , as if Simon bears any loyalty to the federal unit. "This is a serious error, and you're gonna be in deep shit for it too. This is the exact sort of thing we try to __avoid__ by having a transfer procedure set up in the first place. So you can thank your partner here, when your superior's notified about how you tried to sneak him and a whole team into an investigation without any authorization."

"Hey, wait just a second!" Fulbright pipes up. "It's not __his__ fault. He has nothing to do with this! I'm not his partner. I'm just... a replacement! Isn't that right, Prosecutor Blackquill?"

Simon's fraying nerves don't allow him to utter anything more than, "Fulbright..."

"I've never even __met__ him before today, and I sure didn't ask to work with him!"

"Fulbright, not another word, or—"

"So don't you __dare__ talk to him like that, don't you dare threaten him for my mistake! Or I'll—"

"Fulbright!" His free hand locks to his detective's shoulder, steers him away from the group and over to the computer desk in the far corner.

Fulbright blinks, bewildered, though no less tense. Beneath Simon's palm, the cardigan sweater feels scratchy, stiff from the strain of Fulbright's rigid stance.

"You need to calm yourself. Immediately." His request tastes bitter as he realizes he sounds exactly like the teachers and even his own parents, who did not understand how powerfully words could affect a person.

"I'm __trying__ to be calm! They can say what they want about me, fine, but you saw how they acted towards my officers! And what they're saying about __you__! Like you're some idiot!" Wait, Fulbright is more concerned about this hostility being directed towards __Simon__? Not about his own embarrassing blunder? "I'm not going to let them __do__ this, Sir, we're so close to really making a break and—"

"Fulbright, you..." Simon realizes he's still resting his hand upon Fulbright's shoulder, and lets it drop away. "You must leave me to fend for myself. You haven't any other choice. This is no longer your battle to fight."

For all he is certain that Fulbright has not taken heed to a single word he's said, it is this instruction that visibly registers. Fulbright looks, so pitifully defeated, over Simon's shoulder, to Stone and then Ng. "Guys, maybe... call it a day, alright? I'll check in with all of you later, and... I'm sorry." His gaze shifts to Simon as he repeats himself. "I'm sorry, Sir."

To match his expression, Fulbright __sounds__ so pitifully defeated. Simon hates it, more than he hates Fulbright's frightful sweater or his repeating of justice this and justice that until it wasn't even a word anymore.

And he __hates__ what he instructed Fulbright to do earlier, to rid himself of his brilliant smile, because that's precisely what happens as Fulbright turns to follow his officers. Under his breath he is mumbling to himself, the only parts Simon picking out from his garbled string being "they" and "disappointed" and "so upset."

"Fulbright, wait. I need to... you should..." Simon makes a vague sort of gesture, mostly meaning that Fulbright should quiet himself, but also for him to return. He cannot finish his thought; there are too many to choose from. __To apologize__? __To thank you? To ensure you won't take this misstep as an end-all be-all reflection of your ability as a detective?__

Fulbright pauses, backtracks his few steps. "Oh, that's right, Sir. Here." He passes the puppy dog notebook, with all the information they've collected, to Simon. "Here's all __you've__ found out today. During __your__ investigation."

"No, I... I'm only trying to tell you... you may be irritating, a __fool__ , but they are..." Simon attempts to select the right word, but all he can think is __bullies__. It's childish, will make __him__ sound childish. Although, it is how he feels in the moment. So terribly helpless, confused, the way he can't bear to see Athena. "I don't know if I can..."

"Of course you can! After a whole day putting up with me, you can deal with these guys! I just know it, and then you'll get yourself a __real__ detective to work with."

He's not fishing for support, for reassurance. Fulbright had told Simon earlier that he appreciated Simon keeping him and the investigation honest, and he can only believe this is an extension of that. He is so very resolute, and Simon wants to shove him into the wuk once more, shake this demeaning self-talk violently out of him.

But Simon can not do that, nor can he even tell Fulbright to cease his foolish natterings, because Fulbright backs away from him and offers up a salute meant, indubitably, as a wave goodbye. There is no smile accompanying it as he says, "Let justice be your guide, Sir, and you'll do fine."

And then he is gone, and the sorting room is neither cold nor empty, but for some reason Simon feels a little of both.

"Great, now that __that's__ settled... Know it's getting late, Blackquill, but we still need to go over what exactly I'll testify about tomorrow."

Simon recalls the slip earlier, that leads him to believe Agent Parcells is the only one who __can__ testify, at least credibly.

"What if I'd like Agent Cage to testify instead?"

"Aw, hear that, Bart, he wants __me__ to testify." Cage's smirk, if it's possible, grows even more smug. "You takin' a liking to me, Blackquill? Because, hey, if that's what you want, then—"

"N-No, I... hell, I don't give a fig about which of you testifies." One is insufferably conceited, and the other could snap Simon in half like a twig, and __knows__ it, and knows __Simon__ knows it. Of __course__ he doesn't have a preference as to which he has to deal with on the stand, as he can't envision either of them being remotely cooperative; they only expect as much from him. "Anyway, I don't see any need for such a discussion. If this case is so 'in the bag', so to speak, we shan't need anything but a short meeting tomorrow morning, before the trial. Whichever of you is testifying."

"That works," Parcells says. "Want us to fax you the test results? From the knife."

"If you so desire. I care not what you do." He doesn't, if it means he can escape...

"Lose the attitude, Blackquill."

"I'm... I'm not—!" Simon protests; he really __isn't__ meaning to be defiant with them. He is frustrated, __tired__ , and more than a little overwhelmed.

He's right where these agents want him, vulnerable and mismatched. No Fulbright to intercede.

"Just remember, all __this__ aside, there's still __people__ involved at the heart of this case. You can be as pissy as you want about the fact that your little scheme failed, but you have until tomorrow morning to get over it, and not bring it to court with you."

"I would not stoop to such pedantic behavior," he mutters, skimming over the autopsy report once more as a way to avoid their hard glares. All he wants is to __leave__ , to get away from them and go over what he __does__ know, what he can salvage from the investigation and still present as evidence tomorrow, now that nearly all the day's findings have been rendered inadmissible.

When neither agent accepts his answer, Simon glances up from the report. They haven't rejected his claim, but they don't appear terribly convinced, either.

After a few seconds, Agent Cage speaks up. "Alright. Just one last thing, Blackquill."

Simon does not want to hear it, but knows it will be shared regardless of his wishes. "It had __better__ be the last thing."

How much more he misses Fulbright's cheerful smile, with the callous one Cage insists on flashing at him nonstop. "Contrary to what __you__ think, we're not __trying__ to make this hell for you and the PD. Really. So I was thinkin', how about we make a deal? You get us the guilty verdict tomorrow, and we'll try and let this whole thing with your __pal__ Fulbright there blow over."

Simon is listening, and his expression must show it, because Cage continues.

"We could just say that he tried to strongarm his way in, and that you were too much of a sissy to keep him away. This kinda shit happens a lot—detectives bullying their way around, all that. And I'm sure with __you__ , they'd buy it."

Simon can't objectively believe the slur is intended in the cruel, hateful sense he's previously experienced. It's casually thrown out, conversationally, much like how Aura's vocabulary was peppered with insults—hardly affectionate, but hardly malicious either.

But that's not how he hears it, and it jars him, cuts into him, causes him to shrink away. Makes his fingers curl so tightly around his folio that the report crinkles against it, his knuckles turning white.

A vicious command forces its way out. "Do not try to __manipulate__ me into doing your bidding, Agent. You will fail. Miserably."

Turning on his heel, he exits the sorting room. He hopes it will be taken more as making a point than as saving face, that he doesn't wait for a response from this infuriating duo. Hearing one would be unbearable, would only cause him to dwell on the possibility that his threat was born entirely out of the crippling fear he constantly carries, that is spilling loose via a knot in his stomach, a tightness in his throat and prickling in his eyes.

And how horribly unsettling it is that, while so much of this is on Fulbright's shoulders—it was his gaffe, __his__ oversight—Simon feels __he's__ the one who has let everybody down.


	9. Chapter 9

Immediately upon entering the restrooms, Simon activates the sink and splashes his face, once, twice, with cold water. A rushed swipe with his sleeve only partially dries his cheeks, but he doesn't mind; the damp marks remaining will mask the traitorous tears that have sprung forth.

These agents, reminding him so much of his adolescent days, when he didn't often have Aura around to defend him. Being teased, __bullied__ from everything from his race to his perceived (or perhaps, actual?) sexual orientation, and no matter what he attempted, he could do nothing to fend himself from such adversaries. More than once, Simon had been on the receiving end of a detention slip—as well as a fist to the face from some scapegrace who found Simon's threats about skewering them with his katana rightly laughable.

He hates them, hates everything they stand for, and above all, hates himself for not being prepared to counter their dubious tactics. He is under the counsel of Metis Cykes, and whether or not she is fully aware of it, he is a role model, a positive male figure in Athena's life. Are they not __enough__?

He needs to __grow__ beyond this; he __should__ be grown beyond it already, yet here he is in the same spot he often found himself when he was fourteen: holed up in a lavatory and trying not to blubber like some "slanty-eyed queer", or what-have-you.

All that's asked of a samurai is to be sound and strong, in body, spirit, and mind, and more than following the __Bushido__ to bring honor to the Cykeses, he wants to do it for himself. So he can not just survive, but __thrive__ when he's only ever been made to feel he's nothing, can only ever amount __to__ nothing.

Why could he not __stop__ the agents from steamrolling over his commands, and what's more, the way Fulbright had been so gently supportive of him, Simon had reciprocated with... what? He'd done nothing to help Fulbright, to defend him. He'd only allowed his own poisonous words to be thrown back at him as Fulbright sacrificed himself in noble fashion.

Simon assumes Fulbright hadn't meant to point out Simon's earlier maligning of him in that heated moment, but it... it __hurts__ , to think he had been, even for a second, the sort of person he wanted to see the world rid of.

Just as Simon snuffles loudly and wipes his arm across his nose, the restroom door swings open. Hoping to cover the fact that it's the setting for his personal pity party, Simon fumbles his phone out, brings it to his ear.

"Y-Yes, Aura, I shall be returning shortly!" He says too loudly, too dramatically for Officer Stone to not raise an eyebrow as he approaches Simon at the sink. "Yes, yes. I... I love you too. Goodbye."

Gods, he can picture Aura clutching her sides and falling to the floor in laughter at that last line. The image is enough to coax a smile from him, that he's able to give Officer Stone as he tucks his phone away. "I was just leaving, officer. I apologize for all the... events of today."

Stone sidesteps to block him off. "No, hold up, Blackquill. I needed to talk to you. I—"

"If you've come to __gloat__ , I haven't the patience for it now, Officer Stone. I will save you the time, and admit that I am as woefully inexperienced as you proclaimed when we first met. I hope you are able to gain some measure of satisfaction from being proven right. Have a good evening."

"No... Prosecutor Blackquill, you... Please wait. I still have that blueprint, if you want it. " Stone has the same long parchment in his hands that he did earlier. He unfurls it, presenting it for Simon to see, as he explains, "This is the dock and then the back hallways here, including the sorting room. I marked where we found various evidence and bloodstains, and... I don't know if this is important, but there's a freight elevator leading up from the dock, too. I noted it here... "

Simon studies the diagram, following Stone's finger as he points everything out. The quality and detail astounds him; Simon guesses even his own father, who earns a living as an architect, would be impressed. "I... thank you, Officer. This is very well done. I'm sure it will prove useful tomorrow."

"I was going to hand it off to Fulbright, but..." Stone sighs. Then, his demeanor shifts considerably, expression transforming to one of pure outrage. "You know what? Fuck those guys, seriously!"

"I will agree with you wholeheartedly, officer. Unfortunately, this is where we are now—or rather, where __I__ am. Again, my sincerest apologies for being unable to properly defend Fulbright's dignity as a detective. I vow to you, I will see to it that whatever punishment he might face, it is not a severe one."

"What are __you__ sorry about? Bobby's the one who screwed up. Yeah, he's my friend, but he really... he screwed up. It's just, those agents, they're not even __trying__ to work with us, with you. So even if he'd done everything correctly, can you imagine how __that__ would have gone? Them having to hand off what they found to us? You __know__ they just care about the credit, about being the ones to 'solve' everything. At least you, you're..." Stone trails off, as does his eye contact with Simon.

"Please, don't stop. This is cathartic for you—and myself, I must confess." Amusement glints in Simon's eyes, as he really __is__ curious now. "So go on: what am I?"

"Well, you're still a noob, right, but I don't... mean it in a bad way anymore, like you're a punk or anything. Besides, I __know__ you think those agents are full of shit, so even if I __did__ still think you were a punk..."

"The enemy of the enemy is your friend, is that it?"

"You're not my __enemy__ , Blackquill, I just..." Stone takes the diagrams from Simon, busies himself by carefully rolling it back up. He slides the rubber band up and down along the diagram as he speaks. "Look, I don't have a whole lot of respect for most of the prosecutors I've had to deal with. It's 'cause they're mostly like those assholes; all they care about is __credit__ , about... everything other than, well, __justice__. Y'know, a couple years ago, a prosecutor—God, I can't remember his name, or maybe I've just blocked it out. Anyway, this jackass, he almost... he was really bent on the idea that the defendant was guilty, and it turned out his __key witness__ was the killer all along!"

"I see. And as an officer who worked on the case, you felt slighted that all your hard work was, in essence, ignored?"

"No, I..." There's a careful recitation to what follows. Each word clear, crisp. "The victim was my little sister. Her killer almost went free. All because of some jerkoff's __ego__."

It's a slap across the face, breaks Simon from the narrow frame his anxieties have constricted everything into. He feels this is not something that Officer Stone shares lightly, nor should it be. It is solidarity that Stone is offering him, and looking for in return.

"I... I see." No words are sufficient—but an attempt is always more welcome than complete silence.

"And these goddamn agents!" Stone points the rolled-up blueprints in what must be the direction of the sorting room. "They're no better, and it's bullshit, and they __know__ it, but they don't care! And you get what I'm saying, Prosecutor Blackquill, I know you do; Bobby trusts you and your judgment, so I can too. So if there's __any__ way that I could help you—and I know Officer Ng feels the same way—if there's anything __either__ of us can do, after today, then..."

"Yes, Officer. Certainly." Simon cautiously reaches for the blueprints, not wishing for them to be damaged by all the waving around Stone is doing. "And, for what it's worth. I never... I suppose I should have considered that there was a reasoning behind your treatment of me. I thought you naught but a glory-monger, driven by arrogance."

"Yeah, but I was still a dick to you, and I shouldn't have been. I guess we were both wrong, about each other."

"I believe so." There's a pause, one that should be awkward but Simon fills it with a calm smile. "Thank you, again. For the diagrams and for... your shared sentiments."

"Yeah, no prob... Oh!" Stone's face lights up as one does when they've remembered something. "Dakota—Officer Ng, she told me that if I saw you, to send you back to the sorting room! She said you __have__ to see what she came across in the victim's e-mail account!"

"Oh?" Simon quirks an eyebrow. "Have you seen it yourself? I trust it'll, as they say, crack the case wide open?"

"I haven't seen it, all I know from what she told me is that it's really good shit."

* * *

"Officer Ng, this had best be not only the 'really good shit' that Officer Stone informed me of, but the __best__ , most absolute ground-breaking shit I ever see in what I hope is a long and storied career."

Simon says this all with a straight face as he strides up to Officer Ng, and it's enough to send her bursting into laughter before she's able to reply.

"Oh, no joke, Prosecutor Blackquill. I promise, this is the best shit ever." She's rather short, so she doesn't need to hunch over the computer desk, at least not like Simon does as he positions himself beside her. "Sorry, hope you don't mind standing. Chair's evidence, and all. So here, prepare yourself!"

Ng's face is aglow as she opens up the e-mail program. Simon comments, "I'm going to go out on a limb and say that you quite enjoyed yourself, snooping through Mr. Ecsprest's emails."

"Something like that. Honestly, there wasn't too much. Just a couple requests asking for days off, and it looks like him and one of his coworkers, a Holden Biggersley, liked sending memes to each other, most of them pretty inappropriate and not what you'd call 'safe for work'. I don't know if that's someone else we can maybe question, or—"

Simon finds himself staring at a message serving as an example of Mr. Ecsprest's meme tastes, with a particularly fiendish looking sloth iterating what lewd sexual acts it'd like to perform.

"Where is what you promised, Officer? The 'really good shit', as it were?"

"Keep your dick on, I'm getting to that! God..." She huffs under her breath, and scrolls down several messages before opening one. There's a link inside that she clicks on. "Here. Mr. Ecsprest set up an account—a __paid__ account—to access the archives of the __Los Angeles Record__. Lucky me, he saved his username and password in it. Check this out.

Ng presses the 'J' key in the search box of the __Record'__ s archives, and ' _ _Jesse Prior wife murder__ ' is the first suggestion to populate.

"Senator Prior?" Simon asks.

"One and the same," confirms Ng. She guides the mouse to the first result, which has already been browsed, judging by the deeper shade of its font. She clicks, and Simon catches the headline of __**Mayor's Wife Murdered**__ but none of the article itself, as Ng skims halfway down, stopping on photograph serving as a paragraph break.

Simon first notices the sandy-haired teenager at the center of the photo, with his navy sportcoat and a smile prominently displaying metal braces. On one side of him, in a fire-engine red gown, is a pretty blonde girl of the same age and nearly the same height. To his other side is a well-styled woman, dripping in sparkling jewelry, undoubtedly the boy's mother, with her arms entwined around one of his. Behind all three is a sturdy man with a graying mustache and angled cheekbones like those of the blonde girl.

Ng taps a finger on the boy. "That's him, Prosecutor Blackquill. That's Kerry Herr."

"You're sure?"

"Oh, I'm totally sure." Ng prods at the screen again, this time to the caption below the photograph. "See?"

Simon scans the caption, once, twice, disbelieving how much information could be packed in so few words.

 _ _In this 1996 photograph, Susannah Prior poses at a political function with her husband, Los Angeles Mayor Jesse Prior, son Kerry and stepdaughter Ursula. On the evening of August 11, Mrs. Prior was found dead after a charity gala at Silver Meadows Country Club in what has been ruled a homicide. The police are asking for the public's help in this case and encourage anyone with leads to contact the LAPD Tipline. Calls will remain anonymous.__

"For some reason, Mr. Ecsprest was looking into Mr. Herr's—and apparently, Ms. Prior-Stewart's—past," Ng says. "What I can't figure out is why __he'd__ be the one searching it. You'd think the two kids would be the ones knee-deep in this case; it was never solved."

"Oh? You remember it that well?"

"Tch, yeah. When your golden birthday is overshadowed by news blaring everywhere that some politician's wife got ghosted, it kind of... sticks with you. I'm surprised you haven't heard of it... well, I guess you're a bit young. Or unless you didn't grow up in L.A."

If Simon is calculating correctly, he __would__ have been very young at the time this took place. A year old, if that. And if such is the case, his family would have still been in England, plans of moving to California not even in an embryonic stage. "The latter, Officer Ng. Now, did they ever find any leads? __Any__ suspects, at all? What about the mayor—er, senator?—himself?"

"There were hundreds of people at that gala and every one of them checked out, and so did the staff. And no, the mayor, he was a broken man from it; or, at least he acted like it well enough to get reelected a couple months later—and in a landslide, too. God, they were covering this thing twenty-four-seven. You couldn't go a day without seeing the ads on TV trying to garner sympathy, and then pointless updates just to report that there were no new breaks in the case."

Simon hums, affirming. "I see. Anything else you can recall?"

"I don't know if this counts, but what's really... well, not weird, but... " Ng idly scrolls the article up and down, not seeming to absorb any of it as she continues. "I always felt bad for the lady who lost against him. I just remember her—she was this hip, young single mom, no political experience but strong, innovative ideas. My older sister was part of a grassroots campaign that spread like wildfire, to get this woman into office, and... I think she really had a chance until the mayor's old lady here bought the farm. It's horrible to say, but it was like his wife's death was the biggest stepping stone of Prior's career; after that term as mayor ended, he ran for senator, and that's where he's been ever since."

Simon lets this information stew for a few seconds; not every tidbit he receives is important, and yet... he has the hunch that __all__ of this is. "Officer, might I ask your educated opinion on something?"

"Sure."

"If your significant other, or mother was murdered, and that murder was never solved, would you not constantly pursue it until it __was__?"

"Grief is a bitch, Prosecutor Blackquill. People don't act how they know they should. Maybe they were finally able to accept her absence and just... moved on with their lives."

Simon thinks of his own mother, and __her__ absence. After so many years, he has not moved on. He doesn't believe it possible, and her absence had been caused by divorce, not death. He doesn't believe that Mrs. Prior's family, under these circumstances, could have moved on either.

"I can not agree. I think we need to ask ourselves why Mr. Ecsprest was playing amateur sleuth in the first place. He did not seem to have a close friendship to Mr. Herr or Ms. Prior-Stewart. I can't understand why he would be assisting either by looking into an event so far into their pasts."

"Well, maybe it was the __opposite__ reason. Maybe he wasn't trying to __help__ them."

"Pardon?"

"I've just noticed that in cold cases like these, __everyone__ thinks they've got some new angle or theory about whodunnit." Ng takes her eyes off the article, looking over at Simon with a solemnity that matures her greatly. "And maybe... Mr. Ecsprest's theory didn't sit well with Mr. Herr, when he found out. And by 'found out', I mean 'was confronted'."

"You mean to say, that Mr. Ecsprest was treading dangerously close to the truth and that perhaps..."

"Yeah. Perhaps it wasn't a truth Mr. Herr wanted revealed."

Or... Simon thinks of the lengths Aura has gone to protect him during his younger years. No one could torture her brother; that was her job, after all, and she proved it by brutally twisting the nipple of a bully who spit bubblegum in seven-year-old Simon's hair...

Was there a similar nature in the relationship between Mr. Herr and Ms. Prior-Stewart? He can not say, because so much is being hidden from him, and purposefully too. But he can __not__ imagine them working together, in such a large city and after so many years of legally not being siblings, is a coincidence. Nor is it coincidence that such a connection was concealed from him.

What if __she__ was the one confronted, and who's to say how aggressively? Would her former stepbrother have acted— _ _over__ reacted—in his defense of her?

"It still doesn't make sense why the victim would __care__ either way or..." Simon's sentence dies with an exasperated sigh; this belongs in the hands of someone with patience, and a copious amount of free time at their disposal—and also an account with the __Los Angeles Register.__ Luckily for him, he has been introduced to a person who currently fits that very description.

"Officer, would you mind emailing this article to Detective Fulbright? I know the LAPD has access to the __Register__ 's archives; it should be no problem for him to pull it up, along with the others. If you want to contact him after this, to plan when the two of you can reconvene and further comb through them, I would appreciate that. All I ask is that you've whatever information you find e-mailed to me by eight o'clock tomorrow morning."

"Yeah, no problem, Prosecutor Blackquill. Should I CC you on them too? I mean, those jerks wanted to get their hands on everything we'd found, I'd guess they'd wanna know about this too. If __you've__ approved it, of course."

"No. No, don't. It is imperative that only Fulbright receives the e-mail. You see, I do not wish to weigh down our __hard-working__ comrades from the Postal Investigation Unit with all this superfluous information, what, with them liking everything so cut and dry. I have __this__ case to think about, not one nearly twenty years old. With no connection to the current one."

Officer Ng nudges Simon aside, types in Fulbright's address, then clicks 'Send' with a dramatic flourish. She glances over at him, a conspiratorial smirk slowly spreading across her face. "No connection to the current case __yet__."

"Yet," Simon agrees.

* * *

Before leaving, Simon detours away to a secluded corner and calls Aura. When the voicemail instruction begins, he ends the call and instead sends her the most concise text message he can: that the investigation took longer than expected and he will call for a cab to pick him up and deliver him to GYAXA, understanding that she is likely in the midst of dinner preparations.

At the main entrance he is disgorged from the heavy revolving door and into the cool, late spring evening. Lingering at the top step, he brings up his phone's search function to contact a cab company, and just as he's about to dial them, __he's__ the one being hailed.

"Prosecutor Blackquill! Over here!"

Across the street, partially obscured by a monstrosity of a vehicle and waving Simon down, is Detective Fulbright.


	10. Chapter 10

"You're still here?" Simon asks after crossing the street and approaching Fulbright where his car is parallel parked. It takes up the space of two of Aura's compact coupe, a drab gray completely at odds with what Simon would expect Fulbright to own.

"I was waiting for you. I needed to make sure you got this back," Fulbright says, extending his hand to Simon with something pinched between his fingers. Simon curses himself for not recognizing it immediately, and having neglected to ask for it to begin with: Athena's elastic ribbon.

Simon grumbles a thanks, stretching it over his wrist. In return, Fulbright smiles broadly, as if Simon's gratitude is a cure to the ails that have befallen him. "Well, I know it's important to you, Sir!"

A warmth crawls across Simon's skin, and his tongue sits heavy, useless. Of __course__ it's important, but he's running low on energy, especially the proper kind to articulate just __how__ important.

Fulbright takes this silence as a sign he's, once again, flubbed up. "I didn't say it was a bad thing, Sir. It's good to have a healthy coping mechanism!"

"No, I... it's not anything of the sort, I swear... it's... it's only..."

The rest of what follows is hardly words, just syllables filling the void.

A void quickly plugged by the inane question of Fulbright's, "Which of these cars is yours?" Simon assumes he's only asking as a way to end a clearly uncomfortable topic, but there is an unmistakable __interest__. He would say it's put-on, the way Aura alters her tone when around Starbuck and his little high-school chums, humoring them. And yet, the subject change eases him—or, more, perhaps, that Fulbright is astute enough to note a subject change was in order.

"Oh, no. I..." Simon glances about the street, at the line of cars parked along the sidewalk's edge. "My sister drove me here this morning. But I was about to call a cab to take me... er, home." Not home, exactly, but it's an easier explanation than saying 'The GYAXA Space Center.'

"You don't drive?"

"No. That is, I finally obtained my license a couple months ago, but I haven't a car yet. I... I plan on purchasing one once I've a couple months salary saved up."

"Well, I don't think paying for a cab is going to help you do that. Let me give you a ride home, okay?" Fulbright's smile flattens out, a line of regret. "Let me do __something__ useful for you, after today."

"Fulbright, listen, I know you're discouraged, but—"

"Please, Prosecutor Blackquill, just this one thing. And then I'll never bother you again."

The finality of this statement is disheartening. Does he mean, he will not initiate this __bothering__ , or that given his error in procedure today, it is likely he may not have the chance to bother __any__ prosecutor? Simon can't imagine that he is the first officer to make such a mistake, but what does he know about the repercussions awaiting Fulbright—especially if it hinges on whether or not he is cooperative with Agents Cage and Parcells.

Either option does not sit well with Simon. And there is, of course, the e-mail in Fulbright's inbox that Simon must elaborate on if it is to be of any use. He had meant to send Fulbright a short, instructive e-mail himself from his phone, during the cab ride. But...

"I... I see. In that case... I haven't any choice, have I?"

"Great! Hey, but let me make a quick phone call, okay? Just a minute, tops. Go on," he says, motioning to the car. "The door's unlocked!"

Fulbright slips his phone out from his cardigan pocket and retreats several feet down the sidewalk, while Simon rounds to the passenger side, climbing into the car.

Its taupe interior is faded and worn with age, but otherwise tidy. The logo on the steering wheel informs Simon this is an Oldsmobile—an outdated model, much like Fulbright's fashion sense. But unlike Fulbright, it's lacking in character, scarcely individualized in any way. He finds only an orange tree air freshener dangling from the parking brake, which strikes Simon as odd until he sees that the rearview mirror is already sporting a decoration of sorts.

Leaning closer for a better look, Simon takes hold of the ornament between his thumb and forefinger. It's a double-sided frame, each panel approximately two by three inches. The perfect size for wallet photos.

The first panel Simon examines shows a man he does not recognize, around the same age as he or Fulbright. He is dressed in a military uniform and handsome in the most classic sense of the word. This photograph is a reproduction, having obviously been restored and colored, turning his hair a saturated blond that matches Fulbright's.

Simon flips to the other panel. Now, it's Fulbright, clearly younger than he is now but old enough to be an officer, judging by his blues and the peaked cap covering a much more well-groomed head of hair. On Fulbright's right is an older woman who shares his beaming smile, her arms circling him. To his left stands a gentleman about the same age as her, resting a paw of a hand on Fulbright's shoulder. His eyes are shielded by a pair of deep amber aviators but his mouth is crinkled in a manner that boasts pride.

It must be when Fulbright was sworn in, and these are relatives of his. They appear far too old to be his parents. An aunt and uncle, perhaps? Or even, grandparents.

A certain realization washes over him.

Does this offer an explanation to Fulbright's outburst? When he was prattling on about __disappointment__? About __they__?

Simon had assumed __they__ implied the police department, and Fulbright's superiors, but...

But the driver's side opens with a __shunk!__ and Simon flinches, locks eyes with Fulbright as the detective seats himself.

There's a pause. One where Simon lets his fingers fall from the photo ornament, as if Fulbright hasn't caught him red-handed. "I was just... I was looking at..." he begins, indicating the trinket with a flick of his eyes. It is still spinning.

"Those are my grandparents, Sir. Now, 'scuse me..." Fulbright stretches over and pops the glove compartment, pulling out a glasses case. Before it's even opened, Simon knows what is contained within.

They're not the same pair as what Fulbright's grandfather was wearing—these are more of a yellowish tint than the ones in the photograph. But they are, in all other ways, strikingly similar, and Fulbright looks equally striking, though, also, daft as a brush and half as useful.

Fulbright starts the ignition, then presses a couple buttons on his phone before handing it to Simon. "Here, just say your address into this."

The moment of truth.

"GYAXA Space Center." Simon tells the application, and sets the phone into the ash-tray popped out to be used as a stand.

"Y-You live there?"

"No, I... My sister works there, though at times it's as if she __does__ reside there. I mean to meet up with her, for dinner. She and... and a friend... er, my mentor, but still, a friend... they're cooking dinner for me and... yes."

"Gotcha. That's really nice of them. Actually, it's funny, my gram was going to do the same thing for me, tonight, but that's why I called her. I told her—well, __lied__ to her, I guess—and said we're so busy with the case that I'll have to get dinner out somewhere tonight. I don't really..." Fulbright hesitates as he concentrates on easing the car into a three-point turn, and onto the street. "You know, I just wanna think things over before I tell her about it."

"I... about that, Fulbright. The case. I meant to clarify a few things with you. That is another reason I accepted your offer for a ride. I think—"

"Sir, can it wait? Please? Until we've reached GYAXA?"

And for all the pressure Simon's found himself swamped under, and the unspeakably horrid __nerves__ that proverbially clip his wings, he finds it very simple to tell Fulbright, as the side of his thumb traces the band along his wrist...

"Yes. It can."

* * *

So, they don't talk about the case, or much about anything at all. They haven't the opportunity.

At the first red light, Fulbright swipes through his phone to bring up a music application. "Sir, do you like eighties music?" Before Simon answers, Fulbright taps the screen, and the embellished synthesizer beats of 80's pop duo Holland Dotes fills the car.

"Hardly." Or, he is burned out on them, having had them played ad nauseum in his household growing up. If he has to hear it proclaimed that girls just want to have fun (oh, but they just want to!) again, it'll be too soon and surely from Aura's speakers.

"Why? Is it because—" Fulbright pauses for a moment, and then finishes his question singing along with the opening lyrics of the tune. "'What I want, you got; it might be hard to handle'?"

He decides this is his payback for manhandling the wuk, being subjected to this off-pitch butchering Fulbright is trying to pass off as singing. At least Fulbright's mood has taken an upswing, although if it's from the song itself or the cringing reaction he's eliciting, Simon can't tell.

But somehow, nor does he particularly care, even as Fulbright goes on about "how I __ca-an't__ explain!" with a cracking falsetto.

"Fulbright, have you ever considered it's simply that..." Simon cuts the song off by pressing the skip-forward button, breezing through a couple more tracks until he finds the one he's searching for: another well-known hit, and also the sentence that serves as his response to Fulbright.

"I can't go for that."


	11. Chapter 11

Simon directs Fulbright to the visitor's lot as Holland Dotes' ode to a girl who's __gone too far, but you know it doesn't matter anyway__ , fades out.

"Is your sister an astronaut, then?" Fulbright asks, the non sequitur not coming as any great surprise.

"She is not. She is an engineer, helps to develop the various robotics used by GYAXA, as well as other businesses that might be in need of similar equipment. GYAXA's labs and available resources are second to none."

"Wow, you two are quite the successful duo! Almost like Holland Dotes."

"Hah, I've nothing to stake any claim to, which she dutifully reminds me of. It's..." Dare he mention Dr. Cykes? Oh, why not. "It's because of this that she thought it best I consign myself under the tutelage of her coworker, one Dr. Metis Cykes, who specializes in psychology. That is, to aid me in my career as a prosecuting attorney. To pursue the truth from a different angle than my predecessors, and in doing so, contribute in a more... well, more to the legal system's restoration than to the downfall it's in the midst of."

"That's so very admirable of you, Sir. I'd say it's paid off."

"I have not even finished trying my first case."

"Oh, I know that, but... I'd still say it's paid off. Really! I can tell these sort of things."

"Hrm..." Simon uses the action of unbuckling his seatbelt as an excuse to look away, that Fulbright can't see the patches of pink surely spreading across his cheeks. They're parked now, and he should exit the vehicle, but he still hasn't...

He sets a hand on the door handle, though it's all for show. There's a lot he needs to get out, and he is thankful that Fulbright has shown himself the type willing to listen. "So, ah... you said about going somewhere to eat? That is still your plan?"

Fulbright shrugs. "Yeah, there's this nice little retro-style diner, the Jukebox Café, where I always go when I work on stuff away from the station. Well, I guess __tonight__ I won't have anything to work on... but they have the best French toast in the city, that they serve all day! That'll make up for me shooting myself in the foot like this. A little, anyway."

The mention of food evokes a pang of hunger within Simon. It's far later than he predicted, and he never broke for lunch. He knows that right inside the front doors awaits the homemade curry __tonkatsu__ promised him.

And yet, he is in no hurry to stop speaking with Fulbright.

"Are you certain of that?"

"Oh, yes, Sir, their French toast is amazing! I'd even swear to it on the stand!"

Simon sighs, resisting the impulse to bat Fulbright upside the head. "I __meant__ , are you certain that you won't have a case to work on?"

After Fulbright "huh?"s, Simon concisely details the information Officer Ng found within Mr. Ecsprest's account: the __Register__ website, and the saved searches concerning Senator Prior's wife, whose unsolved murder serves as a link between Mr. Herr and the Prior family to this day.

Even with Fulbright's sunglasses blocking his eyes, Simon knows they're aflash with excitement. "That's incredible, Sir! But, wait, you said there's no connection to __this__ case? To Mr. Ecsprest's murder?"

"There's not one __established__ , no." Simon realizes now just how truly exasperating this is, how much __work__ is left to be done and how much he can not be the one to do it. He is no longer clutching the door's handle, simply resting his hand there and letting his fingers drum impatiently along it. "And I haven't the time to look into it. I told Officer Ng to look into it as well—she seems relatively acquainted with the case in general, as I said—and if there's anything either of you determine is of even the __slightest__ importance, I want to be informed of it before the trial starts tomorrow morning."

"Oh, I bet she's found plenty already! Geez, I'd better call her as soon as I leave, I can't go get dinner if there's justice—"

"Gods, Fulbright, at least take time to eat if you must. I know I said I want information by tomorrow morning, but don't __rush__ through this. For it feels as if, however much you two manage to find, it will be of little significance until I'm unable to untangle the web of lies that has been woven by everyone involved in this case."

It is not Simon's intention to implicate Fulbright with that remark, but his detective appears stung all the same. "I don't know why you'd have __me__ do all this; I'm sure Dakota can handle it on her own, and it's my fault you're in this mess to begin with. It's awful, you told me to stay honest with you, and it turned out me being there, as the lead... well, it was a __lie__ , when it comes down to it all."

"Yes, Fulbright, you did foul up. But what you must understand is that, although you are __not__ the lead detective, I... I __need__ your assistance, your input. And I certainly __value__ it more so than from __those__ great plonkers. This is your way—your personal __invitation—__ back in. At least, I'm hoping as much."

There's a few seconds where Fulbright seems to be formulating a very careful response. He raises his aviators, allows them to perch across his forehead. Are these intense amber eyes the same ones Simon found so __vacant__ , just earlier today?

"You... you know, Sir, those agents? They'd be a lot less __effective__ , if they were separated somehow. I think so, anyway. They're like a two-headed monster. I've seen it a lot over the years, unfortunately, both in crimes __and__ around the precinct. But it turns out, one's always the leader, and the other's the follower."

"It's far too akin to being back in high school," Simon realizes too late that this is __not__ a conversation about his life. Fulbright must be trying to make a point, and it's not Simon's place to just spit out such unprompted statements.

But for as uncalled for as Simon's reply is, Fulbright hardly seems to mind.

"Yeah, yeah it is. And I... it shouldn't be, but... well, look, they tried to do it to __you__ , Sir, to get you to turn on me, with all the trouble I caused. It's just really __shady__ , and it's all just a bunch of grandstanding on their part. Intimidation tactics. They __want__ you to feel helpless, as if you don't have any option but to go along with them."

"They have an agenda, you mean."

"Yeah. Exactly."

A moment's pause, wherein a thought occurs to Simon. "You mentioned separating them if possible, and how they meant to foster distrust between us. In that vein, are you suggesting I engage in the same unscrupulous tactics? Pit one against the other?"

Fulbright laughs lightly, running a hand through his shaggy hair. "Well, Sir, I can't really give you __permission__ one way or another; it's __your__ case. But you have a point. They're so focused on having you obsess over how you can't tie Ms. Prior-Stewart to any of this. It's definitely not right that they aren't letting her in for questioning, but if you __can't__ link her to any of this—even if she's previously related to the defendant, like you told me—then you're just digging yourself into a hole and making them more powerful. That's what they want. So forget about that, about her, and __yeah__ , give them a taste of their own medicine; get one to turn on the other."

"I... but __how__ , Fulbright? They're so... oh, please don't repeat this to anyone, but they frighten me." Simon waits for a negative reaction from Fulbright, but there is none; he is simply waiting for Simon to continue. "I wouldn't even know where to begin, with trying to get through to either."

"We know the murder took place in the sorting room, not the dock. Or, __something__ went down there." Fulbright removes his sunglasses briefly, wiping their lenses as he speaks, making this all seem a very casual conversation. "So, if you think about it, it's not even Mrs. Prior's unsolved murder that's important, it's that the __computer__ is—that the victim and defendant both had reason to be there, because of it. You don't have to prove __why__ , just start with the fact that they __were__."

Now it's Simon's turn for thoughtful reflection. It's surprisingly easy, with how complicated the whole day has been, especially with Simon expressing himself. It must be that whole __honesty__ concept Fulbright preached about, as there's no need to struggle for pretenses or a fancy turn of phrase; he finds the words he's looking for, and nothing less or more.

"You told me earlier that there is no denying Mr. Herr is connected to his case; that is the one thing I believe wholeheartedly, and the angle I will pursue. But I've reached the point that I can not say __how__ so, with all that's being kept from me. I am being asked to prove the guilt of a man who I can not unarguably say __is__ guilty, because I do not trust the methods in which this so-called 'proof' of guilt was obtained."

"But I believe in you, Prosecutor Blackquill! I know you wouldn't compromise yourself and your beliefs, just for a verdict, no matter what kind of stunt those agents try to pull with you. And that's why __I'll__ do my very best to find a connection between Mrs. Prior's death and this case, not to help you __win__ , but so justice prevails! I promise, I won't let you down again!"

With that final vow, the aviators return to Fulbright's forehead, and the smile to his face. Stronger than before, much like the peculiar twist somewhere behind Simon's ribs, as it's directed at him.

"Hmph, you speak as if there was a first time." Oh, to hell with it, he might as well just put it out there. He rearranges his mouth into what he hopes is a calm, placid smile, and cautiously reaches his hand to Fulbright's shoulder; the perfect gesture. Not too invasive, but demonstrative enough to accentuate what he says next. "That being said, Fulbright, as far as 'firsts' go, I would hardly be adverse to this being our 'first time' together."

"...Sir?!" Fulbright shifts beneath his touch, a clear attempt to pull away. The exaggerated rising of his brows cause the aviators to __fwip__! down in front of eyes widening with incredulity. "I... I! I mean, I think you're nice enough, Prosecutor Blackquill, but we hardly __know__ each other and—"

"As a case!" Simon retracts his hand immediately, and hopes the tint of Fulbright's sunglasses prevents him from noticing just how flushed red Simon's face has become. "I meant...! You __know__ what I meant! Bah, you should indulge in pasta for your next meal, not French toast, to match your noodle-headedness... __Fool Bright__."

Fulbright, as he would, finds this humorous enough to begin laughing, but it dies out as his attention is caught by something else. Something outside the car, the way he's looking beyond Simon, through the passenger's side window off into the distance.

"Fulbright, what's—" Simon follows Fulbright's gaze, turning around and immediately finding what he doesn't, but __should__ , expect.

Several yards away, the vistor's entrance door is slightly ajar. Tiny hands, an orangey crown of hair, and a pair of metallic antennae are visible within the thin strip of light peeking through.

Simon's irritation quickly subsides. Chuckling softly, he gathers up his folio and pushes open the car door. "Fulbright, follow along."

Fulbright does so, trailing after Simon as he approaches the door and the individual clinging to it.

Simon lowers to a crouch and Athena's slender frame presses warm against him, an antenna nicking him about the chin. He hugs her back with his available arm. "Good evening, Athena."

"You're late..." she murmurs into his chest.

Raising his hand, Simon sets it gently on the back of her head, on her silky hair. "My apologies. But I'm here now, and very glad I am."

Athena turns her head slightly and peers up at Fulbright, who is watching the whole exchange.

"Is this your...?" Fulbright can't quite finish his question.

Athena is small for her age, though clearly too old to be Simon's daughter. And their differing physical features don't exactly mark them as being biologically related.

"Detective Fulbright, this is Athena Cykes. She is a good friend of mine. Athena, this is Fool... er..." He edits himself; Athena may not fully comprehend the lack of disdain his nickname for Fulbright now holds. "This is Detective Fulbright. He was... well, I suppose, __is__ my partner."

He spares a meaningful glance towards Fulbright, hoping that it carries the sentiment of what they spoke about minutes ago, about his desire for their partnership to carry through the remainder of this case, official or not.

Fulbright understands enough to crouch down beside Simon, pop his sunglasses back to his forehead, and lift the badge around his neck for Athena to see. As if Simon would have reason to be lying to her. "Hi Athena! I'm Bobby Fulbright."

Athena pulls back from hugging Simon. She reaches for her headphones, readjusting them with a quirked expression.

Fulbright, for how astute he'd been about the crime scene, does not seem to note the onset of Athena's discomfort. "I'm sure we'll get along, because any friend of Prosecutor Blackquill has to be on the side of justice!" There's the briefest hesitation, where Simon sees the realization dawning in Fulbright's eyes, as he takes in the elastic band that Athena has around her own wrist. "And __you__ helped so much, too! That hair tie you let Prosec—... _ _Simon__ have, he seemed really __inspired__ by it!"

Simon expects her to blanch at this stranger suddenly entering in her life, and so deafeningly loud, too. He braces for the recoil, for the panicked whimpers, for trembling arms to snare him again, even tighter.

But instead, the strangest thing happens.

Athena smiles back at Fulbright, in a way Simon has always wished for her to: without the slightest trouble.

"...Really?"

Fulbright holds up three fingers tightly pressed together. The oath of a Boy Scout. Of course. "Really!"

"Yes, well, about that, Athena." Now sure that Athena isn't in immediate need of consoling, he rises from his crouch. "I wanted to ask you if I could keep it for the trial tomorrow, at the least. I think I will be needing more luck than what I was provided today."

She nods fervently. "Yeah! And... you need one too, Mr. Fulbright, if you're Simon's partner."

The one around her own wrist is plucked off, passed to Fulbright. It nearly snaps as he stretches it over his hand, but finds its way safely to a new home and when Fulbright thanks her, her "you're welcome!" bubbles out full of the childlike glee she deserves to experience.

What is going on? Athena is never like this around new people. Or, Simon shouldn't say __never—__ it's tough to gauge, when there's so few incidents to weigh her behavior against.

He takes the opportunity to further the positive atmosphere, to gently pry into __her__ accomplishments from the day.

"Enough about __my__ day, Athena. I can hardly wait to see what __you've__ all prepared for dinner tonight." Athena had been all too eager to assist her mother and Aura with the meal tonight; a special occasion, after all. "I'm sure it'll be a feast for the ages."

"Oh, um..." Her smile droops, her head hangs and Simon doesn't know what he said that was so horribly __wrong__. "That's why I was waiting for you... I have to warn you, Simon!"

"Warn me?"

Athena scuffs her shoe along the cement ground. "Making dinner didn't go very well so Aura decided we should just order something. Mom wanted to wait until you came back, so you could pick."

"How do you mean it 'didn't go well'?"

Athena shrugs. "Mom told Aura it wasn't a good idea to experiment with letting PONCO cook, but...well, I think PONCO's okay, but Mom made me leave the kitchen because Aura was saying lots of bad words. So I'm not sure. Oh, please, don't get mad, Simon!"

Yes, of course. Aura taking this as a chance to impress Dr. Cykes.

Simon sighs, and sneaks a glance at Fulbright, who appears very... __amused__ by all this. Hmph. "I'm not. Not in the least. We could always delay the dinner until after the trial has concluded."

"After you win?"

"Yes, well... I hope so." He pats her head again, with brotherly affection. If only he could somehow steal some of her confidence in him, for himself.

"Yeah, you sure __sound__ really hopeful, Simon."

"I... is that so?" Oh, bother, what does she mean?

She looks over at Fulbright, who's still watching with great interest. Again, she doesn't squirm about uneasily, or cower away, only turns back to Simon and says, "Like when Mr. Starbuck's friends visit. You know, those guys who always yell at each other?"

Terran and Justice. Simon has met them in passing once or twice, and __heard__ them from a distance quite a bit more. He nods, mutters a "Yes..?"

"It's just like that! You sound like they do when they cheer each other on. It's because Mr. Fulbright's here, helping you, isn't it?"

"It is most certainly not!" Simon brings his free hand to his mouth, to cover the frown that forms. It muffles the start of what follows. "In fact, Detective Fulbright should be __leaving.__ Athena, say goodbye to him for the time being, so he can be on his way. I'm sure he has a great many justice-related activities to attend to, that we are keeping him from."

"No!" Athena protests, and tugs at Simon's arm. "Can't he stay, and eat dinner with us? Then you guys can work extra hard on the case together! I can help, too, Simon!"

"I'd love t—" Fulbright starts, but Simon speaks right over him.

"Athena, I said no. I have already monopolized his time for the day, he does not want to waste another second in my company."

"Sure I do! Hey, I know! What if we __all__ just go to the Jukebox Café? You could bring your sister, Sir, and Athena, your mom could come too. I'll drive!" Fulbright is looking at Athena as he says all this, and it has its intended effect.

She squeals, "Yeah!" at the same time Simon splutters out, "Wh...?! No! Absolutely not!"

He may be called away at a moment's notice, and would hate for it to be while comfortably dining with his sister and the Cykeses. Not to mention that __getting__ there—the five of them cramming into Fulbright's clunker—is ludicrous.

"But Sir, you said I should take the time to eat, and not rush! And I think, with how stressful the day's been, it'd be __so__ much nicer to have dinner with friends, instead of all by myself!" It might just be for dramatic effect, but Fulbright pinches at the bridge of his nose, as though stemming back tears that may begin any minute, should Simon continue his refusal. "And how am I supposed to concentrate on investigating the Prior case if all I can think of is the great injustice of not being given a chance to repay Miss Cykes for all her help!"

" _ _Please__ , Simon? I won't mess up, like last time," Athena begs. " _ _Pleeeeease__?"

This is even more a losing battle than trying to discuss a damned thing with those agents. He doesn't want to describe Athena's hardships to Fulbright in front of her, how Fulbright does not understand Athena's predicament, her over-sensitive hearing and the damage it could inflict if she is thrust into too hectic a setting. The most he can do is remain staunchly opposed to this offer, and yet...

She sounds so __exuberant__ , which he does not require any sort of advanced hearing to detect. And she trusts him—and, apparently, Fulbright—in a way she does not trust anyone who is not employed at GYAXA.

He knows, already, that Dr. Cykes will allow it—her poor daughter, so content to whittle time away in the confines of the space center with little to no human interaction, actually __yearning__ to go out? Besides the occasional visit to Juniper's home on the outskirts of the city, Simon can't think of another time that Athena has left GYAXA that wasn't to go to school. She __did__ want to see Simon's office, wanted to help him decorate it and even drew up a crude design of what the finished result would look like. But they only got so far as the lobby before a fellow prosecutor wielding a whip cracked it repeatedly at a sniveling detective, the commotion startling Athena into tears.

(Simon kept the drawing, though. Tacked it up beside his diploma, and keeps reminding himself to purchase a similar frame for it.)

He fears a repeat of this episode, but the only true remedy is to try, and try again. As much as he wants to protect Athena, he knows she can also not be __stifled__ , not when there's so much she can give the world she's so frequently hidden away from.

And, he thinks, for all Aura's driven him around lately, giving her an evening alone with Dr. Cykes would be an excellent way to show his thanks.

Simon surrenders, and looks down to the blue eyes sparkling up at him. "Athena, go ask your mother and Aura— _ _politely—__ if you can join Detective Fulbright and myself for dinner. And let them know it is perfectly fine if they'd like to order in for themselves, if they want to stay here and relax."

"Yay!" With that, Athena disappears inside. The door shuts, but Simon can hear her call of "Mo- _ _ooomm__!"

"She's a really cute kid," Fulbright tells him after a handful of seconds pass. "You choose your friends well, Sir!"

"Yes, I... she has not been given the easiest lot in life, but..." Simon swallows, thinking of however tedious the world must think being around Athena Cykes is, it's exponentially more difficult for her. "She is so very remarkable."

Remarkable, indeed, as a minute or two later, Athena comes scampering back out the door, a suede child's purse swinging from her shoulder. Snagging Simon's hand on the way, she pulls him towards Fulbright's car with the shout of "Shotgun!" She releases Simon halfway there, darting ahead to the passenger's side.

Fulbright passes Simon, and pauses at the driver's side door to slide his aviators back on, even though only the smallest wisps of sunlight remain. Athena has already climbed into the passenger seat and is buckling her seatbelt with more enthusiasm than even Fulbright, when he showed off his badge.

He has rarely seen her like this, brimming with a pure joy that can not be duplicated even by someone like Aura, in how nuanced she was able to construct her robots' matrix of emotions.

Could she really be this taken with Fulbright, so soon? Simon knows that she can hear what he— _ _everybody—__ can not, and he would never invalidate her ability by passing off this immediate connection as a child's naivete.

There is something about Bobby Fulbright that, for as inexplicable as he is to Simon, is easily understood by Athena. Makes her feel happy and, perhaps, __safe__ , and it's something he can accept, for now, if only to have something __good__ come out of this abysmal day.

Last to get in, Simon folds himself into the backseat of the Oldsmobile and is met with the harmonies of Holland Dotes and Athena exclaiming, "Yeah, you bet!"

When Simon asks, "'You bet' what?", it's Fulbright who tells him, "That she loves French toast."

* * *

There is a short wait for a booth at the Jukebox Café—that is, one in the smaller of the two dining areas, and more secluded, which Simon prefers with having Athena out in public like this. He gives her a dollar in quarters to play with the crane game in the lobby while they wait. Fulbright does the same, and Simon releases an alleviated sigh as they take a seat on the long narrow bench positioned near the entrance

"You know, Detective..." Simon turns his gaze from Athena, who is meticulously guiding the crane over a plump stuffed panda. "I never did get a chance to ask you about your glasses. They are rather unique."

Fulbright's eyes roll upward, as if he can see the sunglasses where they are now, propped upon his forehead. "You think so? I've always thought aviators look pretty sharp. Give me an air of mystery or something!"

"I can safely say you are, in fact, very mystifying, Fulbright."

"Thank you, Sir!" He reaches behind his ear and taps the temple tips, sending the aviators whisking down to where they belong, in front of his eyes. "You know, you're the first person to say that these really suit me."

Only Fulbright would take such an observation as a compliment, and return it with a comment equally as obtuse. And it's somehow fitting, with all they've been through today, for Simon to be brought back to the moment they first met. When he was so puzzled by Fulbright and his presence that he hadn't even...

"You're welcome." Simon shifts more towards Fulbright, bending an arm up and offering an open hand.

It's taken with a winning smile. The kind Simon can not replicate, but returns with his own lop-sided one.

He remembers claiming to Fulbright more than once how he "knows many things", but what Simon does not know is how to express how fortunate— _ _lucky__ , even, thanks to Athena—he is that fate intervened and provided him such a trying, and yet, __educational__ first day.

Or how, as a detective—and should the boost in spirit he's experiencing at the moment be any indication, as a potential __friend—__ Bobby Fulbright might very well suit __him.__


End file.
